One Month in Winter
by kalabangsilver
Summary: An alternative season 10, set in December 2011. Harry is saved from the tribunal to face a new threat to the service. To do so, however, he must face up to a few ghosts from his past. Rated T, with some Christmas team bonding and a healthy dose of H/R. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - I have had a plan of this fic lying around for months, now, and thought that this was probably the most appropriate time of year to write it up properly and release it. It shouldn't be too long and there will be some Christmas H/R in there, for anyone who is interested. =) __For purposes of the plot, please consider what happened at the end of season 9 to have happened in September, making Harry's tribunal in early December. __All my best. __-Silver._

_Chapter 1 – Trials and Tribulations_

_._

_Monday 5__th__ December, 2011_

_._

There was a man speaking French on the radio and the coffee mug was growing cold in his hand, as the clock ticked steadily over to two o' clock. Harry Pearce stared up at it mournfully. Time seemed to have slowed to an almost stand-still. He had been sitting here for the last two hours, staring blankly at the television screen. He was not really watching anything. He was not really doing anything at all – mostly because there was nothing much left _to_ do. There was nothing on the television that he had not watched a dozen times before, there were no books on his shelves that he had not read and he had finished all the projects he had started, around the house.

Experimentally, Harry stretched one foot out, rubbing the pad of it across the carpeted floor. His socks were mismatched – a slightly different shade of grey which had looked the same in the half-light of the morning. He should really go and change them. The MI5 driver would pick him up in an hour or so, in preparation for his final tribunal, this afternoon at four o' clock. He could not quite bring himself to get up off the couch, however. Lethargy had overcome him, effectively gluing him to the seat. Eight weeks of temporary suspension had left him morose and despondent.

He had not been expecting it to be this way. After the initial bad feeling about the situation, he had rather come around to the idea of taking a break and having some time to get his head around things. Indeed, the first week of his leave had been almost pleasant. He had pottered about the place, enjoying the freedom of not having the nation's security on his shoulders, not having to worry about bombs going off in public places if he was not on the ball. He had slept in, he had gone for walks, and he had painted the downstairs bathroom.

As the days stretched into weeks, however, the loneliness had set it – far more intense than he had ever been expecting it to be. The time he had wanted, to get his head around things, suddenly seemed like too much time. The thoughts he had wanted to ponder seemed too many, too dark, too sad. As the days passed, Harry began to yearn for the human contact that his job inevitably gave him – the contact he had always thought he despised. The team, the Section, his colleagues and superiors – even the bloody politicians would have been preferable to no one. And no one was what he had, in his private life. Days passed without him speaking to another living soul. Almost a week passed, without him uttering more than a perfunctory word to a shopkeeper or a taxi driver. It was only when his daughter called, one morning, and Harry had answered with a voice coarse from disuse, that he realised how ridiculous the situation had become.

He was pathetic. He was alone and miserable. And god knew how much worse he would be if this tribunal went badly. After all, if he couldn't cope with eight weeks of enforced leave, how was he possibly going to survive permentant removal from the service? How could he possibly keep himself amused for seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year? What would he do with weekends and full nights of sleep? What would he do without seeing Ruth every day?

The thought of her was enough to make him stop, mid-thought, and run his fingers through his fast-thinning hair.

Ruth.

He had to stop thinking about her if he was going to make it through this afternoon's trial. It was bad enough that she would be there, to watch him get sentenced; he did not want to be tripping over his words, when he should be presenting a case before the panel. It was down to him to get her out of this. As the situation stood, now, Ruth would probably lose her job over the Albany fiasco. After he was permanently dismissed, she would be quietly removed from the Service. Either that, or be pushed back to GCHQ, where her career would stagnate. Harry had prepared a report and submitted it to the panel a week ago, outlining her contributions to national security. It was a fairly impressive document – he just hoped _that_ and not the love with which it was written. He just hoped they would see how brilliant she was, how that alone should save her.

Standing, Harry took leave of the couch and paced through to the kitchen. His jacket and shoes were waiting for him, alongside his keys on the table. It was time to get dressed, he told himself firmly, time to go. His was not the only career hanging in the balance today. After dressing and momentarily missing Scarlet, for his not having anyone to bid goodbye, Harry made his way out to the front of the house, let himself out and locked the door behind him. The driver was waiting at the side of the street, early as always.

"Morning, sir," he greeted Harry as he slipped into the back seat of the car.

Harry wondered, vaguely whether he would still have his knighthood, after all this was through. Probably not was the consensus he reached.

"Good morning, Mike." He nodded to the road, with a sigh. "I suppose I should get going. Don't want to be late to my own party."

A nod from the driver and they set off, in silence. Harry supposed he would have to get used to people not knowing what to say – and to the silence. Once today was over, he might be spending the rest of his life in it.

_._


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 – One Month_

_._

_Monday 5__th__ December, 2011_

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Sitting in the second row from the front of the room, Ruth shifted uneasily on her hard metal chair. Her discomfort was primarily due, not to the nature of the seating arrangements, but to the greater situation which she had found herself in. She was in a room full of some of the country's most powerful men and women, discussing whether or not she had been shagging her boss.

It was never going to be a pleasant situation but the reality was far worse than Ruth had dared to imagine. Throughout the whole tribunal, the panel had not once looked at her directly. Their eyes slid right over her, from the man on her right, to Erin Watts on her left. Perhaps, they thought that the scandal might rub off on them. Whatever the reason, Ruth had gritted her teeth and borne it. There were worse thing in this life than being a ghost and she wanted to be here. Though she was not required to, Ruth had attended all four of Harry's tribunal meetings. While it rather cemented the idea that her and Harry were something more than colleagues, Ruth could not bring herself to let him go through this alone, not after all he had done for her.

Her eyes drifted over to where her boss sat, alone, at the front of the room. Three Service officials sat across from him. Ruth had met them only once before and that was during the Agent X trial. They were high ranking management types, the public face of the Security Services. She suspected that they only ever mixed with internal personnel when somebody was about to be lynched. In 2004, it had been Zoe. Today, it was Harry's turn.

Ruth's stomach twisted, uncomfortably, and she tried not to focus on the guilt coursing through her. She would do nobody any good by breaking down in tears, today. Fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket, she focussed her attention back on Harry, in a vain attempt to stay in control.

It was almost as if he sensed her gaze. Turning away from the panel, he looked over one shoulder, throwing her a half-smile. Ruth forced herself to smile weakly in reply. His smile had produced a rush of emotion, through her body – not all of it welcome. Predominantly, it brought comfort, but there was a lot of regret mixed in there too. Regret, fear, and the painful longing she felt, at seeing his face again. She had missed him desperately. Quite apart from her personal attachments, the Grid had felt strangely bereft, without Harry there.

It was not that Ruth did not like his replacement. She did. Erin Watts was a breath of fresh air to a team which had grown battle-weary and cynical. Any initial doubts that Ruth had, about her cool management style, had been forgiven when she watched Erin lead the take-down a four-man Al-Qaeda cell, on her first day. Erin was a good leader. She did not mind getting her hands dirty, she was calm and decisive in a crisis, and professional to a fault. Ruth could not help but think, however, that her new boss might be more suited to a position in the field than one behind a desk. She was terrible at delegating. Bureaucratic phone calls frequently had to be routed through Ruth, because Erin spent so much time running between sites, personally supervising multiple operations. Harry's desk just seemed too big for her, at the moment. His office too empty, also, without him pacing there.

Ruth dragged herself away from her boss's gaze before she did something silly, like shout her undying love for him.

Around her, the room was slowly filling. The tribunal panel were taking their places, at the head table. One of them greeted Harry, but the majority seemed interested in getting the whole affair over with, as soon as possible. To temper her desire to plead for Harry's job, Ruth absorbed herself in scanning the room. There were only two rows of chairs, all of which were now filled. Near the back, she spotted Siviter, from Six, and registered a brief flash of surprise. Harry's nemesis had always showed borderline disregard for his fellow intelligence officials. The fact that he was there must mean he had a stake, in the outcome. Whether that made Harry's fate was worse, or better, Ruth did not dare to guess.

She faced forwards again, taking a steadying breath. Harry had turned forwards, too, something Ruth was glad of. Today was going to be hard enough for him, without having him watch her discomfort.

They sat, waiting for the panel to start the meeting. At one point, Erin tried to initiate quiet conversation but the attempt failed dismally. Ruth barely heard her quiet joke, about the Defence Secretary's tie. With all of her attention focussed on the panel, at the front of the room, she only just managed to get out a hum in reply. After two other attempts to talk, about the weather and the current caseload, Erin chose (rather kindly) not to pursue the matter any further. She did move her arm incrementally closer to Ruth's, however, as if in support of her plight.

After a minute or two, the woman at the head of the committee leant forwards and flicked on her microphone.

Ruth held her breath. This was it.

"Thank you everyone for taking the time to be here, this afternoon." The woman said, pulling on a stoic smile.

The woman's name was Rebecca something-or-other. Ruth remembered her dimly from an HR seminar they had all been forced to attend, last July. Ruth wondered what field and command experience she had, which made her suitable to pass judgement on Harry; Harry, who had sacrificed so much for his country.

"I'll try to keep this session as short as is possible." The committee head cleared her throat. "This panel has reached a decision on the matter of the continued employment of Sir Henry James Pearce, by Her Majesty's Military Intelligence Service."

Ruth could not help but feel a little surprised at how quickly they had reached the crux of the matter. The last few sessions had taken over an hour or so each, with a thorough run-through of all the information each time. Ruth looked about herself, to see if the rest of the room shared her sentiment. A few of the suits she recognised from Whitehall were shifting in their seats. One of MI5's HR people was squinting thoughtfully over the rim of his glasses. Clearly, they had also anticipated another review.

"Using all the information provided, by witness statements and reports submitted to the panel, we have decided that Sir Harry Pearce should remain in his current position as Head Military Intelligence Section D for the probationary duration of a month."

Ruth blinked, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her stomach had dropped away a little, inside her body. They wanted him to stay?

The committee head continued, turning her dark eyes on Harry.

"There are conditions for your return, of course. Erin Watts has served as your replacement, during your eight-week absence. We require you to retain her, as Section Chief. We will also require you to re-qualify for firearm and field training, and attend a weekly psychological evaluation. Deviations from protocol will not be tolerated and will result in immediate and indefinite suspension." The woman sat back in her seat, pulling her papers back towards her and shutting them inside a file. "This probation period will last four weeks, after which this panel will review your work and make a decision on your continued employment, within your current post."

The committee head graced Ruth's boss with a brief smile, which did not quite reach her eyes. Ruth had the sneaky suspicion that the decision of the panel had not been quite as unanimous as she had made it out to be – perhaps, it had not even been the decision of the panel. It would not have been the first time that a higher power had stepped down to save Harry's neck.

Do you accept these terms?" the woman asked Harry politely.

After a moment of watching her for a moment, in apparent disbelief, Ruth's boss finally managed to speak.

"I will continue to serve my country, in whatever capacity is asked of me."

"Then I look forwards to seeing you again in four weeks' time, for a review." The woman stood and nodded, curtly. "Please let me pass on my thanks, and the thanks of this tribunal panel, for your cooperation on this matter, Sir Harry." She raised her eyes to the room, skimming over Ruth as she did so. "Thank you all for attending. Good afternoon."

And with that, it was over. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.

The room came slowly to life, voices buzzing excitedly through the air. Chairs scraped and shoes squeaked across the floor as people stood and made their way towards the exit. Ruth stared straight ahead, focussing on the committee head, only dimly aware that she was still sitting rigidly in her seat, fingernails digging into the soft skin of her palm as she held her hands in fists, atop her lap. She bit her lip and then released it, just to check that she was not dreaming.

"Well," Erin said, eventually. "That was unexpected."

"It certainly was." Ruth swallowed and bit at her lip again, eyes darting between her old boss and her new boss.

Harry managed overcome his surprise, at the sentencing, in order to shake the hands of members of the tribunal panel. Ruth let her eyes wander over his face, reading the confusion and latent worry that lay there. She knew why he was not exactly glowing with relief. If the government was letting Harry slip through the noose, then there must be some shady ulterior motive on the horizon.

Ruth sought out Siviter and the man he had come in with. She found them talking in undertones, near the doorway. Siviter looked uneasy, but Ruth could not decide whether that was due to the outcome of the trial, or the events it had set in motion. Were Six the ones with the ulterior motives?

Erin brought Ruth back to reality, squeezing her forearm. Ruth turned back to face her.

"I've got to go. The DG just called."

"Do you need me to-," Ruth began to ask, but Erin shook her head before she could finish the question.

"No, Ruth, stay. Pass on my congratulations and tell Sir Harry I look forwards to meeting him, tomorrow." She stood and Ruth mirrored her movements. Erin gave a half-smile. "I've got to go. I expect there will be a lot of paperwork needing signed, during the shift in power." They shook hands. It was rather more formal than Ruth was used to, between colleagues, but that was Erin all over. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Ruth swallowed her gratitude, for the fact that she was not expected in for the rest of the afternoon. Another nod of the head and Erin strode off, heels clicking loudly on the marble floor of the great room. Ruth turned slowly back to the front and caught Harry's eye. He was busy shaking hands with a man Ruth vaguely recognised from the Home Office, his eyes fixed on her.

She considered going outside, to wait for him, but decided against it. Whatever anyone's opinion of the pair of them, it was not going to be changed by their walking out together; not after the exceedingly concise breakdown their relationship had received, during the last few days of the tribunal. She walked as far as the door and halted there, then, toying with the straps of her bag as she waited for Harry. He finished up quickly, throwing on his coat as he strode towards her.

"You didn't have to come, Ruth." He told her quietly. His eyes said that he was glad she did.

"Couldn't really not come," she forced a smile. "There was always the possibility that you'd be my boss, at the end of this."

"Not much of a possibility."

"Still, I thought it best to stay in your good books." She gave him a smile. "Looks like its a good job I did, too."

His eyes rested on hers rather fondly, for a moment, then he motioned towards the door.

"Well, shall we?"

"Yes."

Steering them down the hall, Harry ducked his head as they passed a group moving in the opposite direction, muttering something like '_if one more person asks to shake my hand_...' Getting the impression he would rather let the verdict of his tribunal sink in out of the oppressive dark of Thames House, Ruth led the way towards the exit. They walked together down the hallway and clicked down the stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly off the stone walls. It was only once they were alone in the privacy of the stairwell that Harry allowed for some relief to shine through, in his face.

"So," Ruth glanced sideways at him, as they passed down the long corridor and down the stairs. "It seems you've been given a stay of execution."

"Yes." Harry rubbed his forehead. The momentary flash of relief had vanished from his face and he looked worried again. "Although, to what end, I'm not entirely sure."

"A benefactor, perhaps, with some sort of mutual arrangement?" Ruth suggested.

Emerging from the staircase into the great entrance hall, their footsteps echoed a little louder. Ruth's boots clicked sharply against the marble. Harry looped a scarf around his neck, throwing her a softly disbelieving glance.

"Unless things have changed vastly, in the last eight weeks, mutual arrangements still have to be arranged mutually."

"So, this is the first you heard about a reprieve, then?" she asked.

"The Home Secretary told me, in no uncertain terms, to prepare for life after MI5. So, this is the first I've heard about it, yes."

They passed security and stepped out, through the headquarters' great dark doors, into the open air. At four o' clock, in December, the day was already drawing to a close. The sky was dark, the air frigid. Harry's breath immediately clouded the air as he gave a heavy sigh.

"That's better," he murmured, pausing to pull his gloves on, on the top step of the building.

Ruth paused next to him.

"So, any idea what this could be about?" she asked him, softly.

"Several," Harry looked over at her, eyes sweeping her face. "Each more likely and horrific than the last."

Ruth nodded and they stood, looking about themselves. A car sat at the side of the road, Harry's driver in the front seat. Ruth looked between it and her boss, wondering what his plans were for the afternoon. Was he coming back to the Grid, right away? Should she go with him, if he was?

"I have to speak to the Home Secretary." He told her, checking his phone before placing it back in his coat pocket. "This handover is going to be wretched mess."

Ruth nodded, quickly.

"Of course, I'll just-,"

"Can I give you a lift home?" he asked, before Ruth could offer to make herself scarce.

She dithered.

"I, uh, I don't know. I think Erin might want me back on the Grid." She lied.

"Erin's not your boss anymore, Ruth." Harry reminded her, his tone slightly playful.

Ruth felt her heart beat a little faster and was suddenly glad of the cold December wind, which stopped her cheeks from reddening. Shifting about, she shoving her hands into her pockets and trying to appear disinterested in the way her boss's eyes were darting about her face. They had always watched each other a little more than was strictly necessary, held gazes longer than colleagues did. It was something that they had agreed, years ago, was acceptable; just harmless voyeurism. It had been a wordless agreement, of course. They had never talked about it and they probably never would. Neither particularly wanted to bring their little game out into the real world.

Harry's eyes flickered across her lips and Ruth withdrew her gaze from his. There were rules to be observed, even in their silently agreed game.

"A lift to your place, then?"

"It's not really on your way." She procrastinated. "I'm sure you have more important things to be doing."

"And I'm sure you had more enjoyable ways of spending your afternoon than coming to watch me run the gauntlet." He nodded towards the car. "Come on, I'll take you home."

This was one of those moments that, whatever her decision, things between them would not remain the same. If Ruth went with Harry, she would be accepting what he did for her, with Albany. She would be accepting this strange new place they had reached, in the long and tragic epic that they were. If she refused the lift, he would stop pursuing her. She was almost sure of it. After all, he had given the ultimate confession of his love, there was nothing else he could offer her. National security was not Harry's to give – the only reason he had had given up Albany was because it had been a fake – but he had given up his job for her. He had given it willingly.

Ruth watched him carefully. She had no idea where 'they' were going. There had been moments, in the weeks before Albany, where she had considered letting him back into her life but Albany should have changed everything. The confession he had made by handing it over should have been the wake-up call she needed, the thing which told her that people in their position had no business being in love. It was too much of a risk. Logically, she knew that. Logically, she knew it made no sense – she and Harry could never work – but, at the same time, it felt good. It felt incredible, having Harry's feelings for her displayed out in the open. He had chosen her, over his job. And, whatever her logical mind thought, she did not want him to stop chasing her, not yet.

With a nod in her boss's direction, Ruth climbed into the back seat of the car and slid across. He got in behind her, shutting the door with a snap. Giving the driver her address, he leant back against the headrest and sighed heavily.

"Thank you, Harry." She told him, her voice quiet.

He opened his eyes, swinging them over to meet hers. He knew what she meant.

It was thank you for her life, her freedom, his love; everything.

"You are very welcome, Ruth." His voice was soft and heart-shakingly tender.

For once, she did not shy away from it. Just this once, she gave him the moment and smiled, before turning back to the window. Outside, London passed by, in a blur of glass and stone and metal. The sky was darkening, the streetlamps were coming on, the car was warm and Harry Pearce was not going to be thrown to the wolves. Ruth swallowed back her inner joy. Her companion was quiet, too. Neither had ever been the type to let their feelings known too loudly and today was no day to start. This new place they had reached was fragile. Too easily broken by jumping in too fast.

Ruth heard him sigh, across the car.

She could wait, she decided with a smile, wait and see what would happen.

.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N - Hello all. A couple more chapters for you. A little plot-heavier than the previous two but I had to set the story up. Should be more H/R in the days to come. To those who have asked about 'Catalysis', I have no abandoned it - I decided to take a break and plan out where I was going with the rest of the fic and now that is done I should be updating again in the New Year. Thanks for all the comments and I hope you continue to read and enjoy. All my best, __Silver._

_Chapter 3 – At the Home Office_

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_Monday 5__th__ December, 2011_

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Harry had his driver drop Ruth off at hers before taking him straight back to Millbank. It was an enormous detour, but necessary, in his mind. He owed Ruth a debt of gratitude that could never be fully paid. She had given him everything, of the last couple of years – her freedom, so that he could stay and protect the country, her family when she returned, her innocence, her naivety, her integrity at some points... He, in return, had given her nothing but untold amounts of pain. There was nothing he could do to make that up, Harry knew. Still, he fully intended to spend the rest of his life trying, in whatever limited way he could. What he had done with Albany lay the foundations of a bridge, leading back to where he wanted to be, but Harry knew there was still a long way to go. Especially after his botched proposal, last year.

He still wasn't sure why he had done it. At the time, it had all seemed so simple. A proposal had seemed so obvious. He had wanted her. He was sad and sick of what their individual lives had become and he thought they would both feel so much better together. Looking back, however, he suspected there was a fair amount of denial involved. He had been in denial that she was not still mourning for her husband and son. He had been in denial over what stage of a personal relationship he and Ruth really were at, insisting to himself that they were okay when, really, they were only _just_ back on speaking terms. Days before, she had asked him for a drink – indicating that maybe, someday, she might want more than friendship – and he had exaggerated the sentiment and moved too fast. Again.

He always had been one for jumping in with both feet, before he was ready. His father had used to snap at him for it, seeing it as one of the greatest flaws a man could have. A Colonel in the army, James Alexander Pearce had no tolerance for impatience, or impulsiveness. Harry had tried, for years, to emulate his steadfast manner, but he was not built that way. Self-restraint and self-denial did not come naturally to him. What he had, now, had been built up carefully through years of practice and, while it was now much easier to maintain it in a professional arena, maintaining it in the personal was still difficult to balance. He should have tried harder, he thought bitterly, staring out the window at Westminster sweeping by. Perhaps he wouldn't be in this mess.

Closing his eyes, momentarily, Harry wondered what the man who had raised him would think of him, now; what he would think if he knew everything that was. What would James Alexander Pearce think of this man he had become – a killer and a liar? It didn't really matter what he would think, Harry reminded himself, opening his eyes and looking out the window at London passing again. His father would never know everything that he was. Nobody would. Not his family, his few friends... or even Ruth. Harry would go to his grave the only one who knew what he had truly done – what he truly was.

Killer. Liar. Cheater. Spy.

The car's sudden stop on front of the Home Office startled him from his quickly darkening thoughts.

"Here we are, sir," his driver announced, from the front of the car.

Harry looked up at the great glass-fronted building and contemplated, for a minute, asking the driver to turn around and drive him back to Ruth's house. It was where he wanted to be. It would be an entirely counter-productive move, however, as he would have no idea what to say when he actually got there. Once more, it would be a case of loitering down the street from her door, words stuck in his throat. Nothing to say. Nothing constructive anyways. The constructive things he wanted to say to her never quite made it from his brain to his lips.

"Thank you, Mike," he told his driver, then, pulling open the door and climbing out. "I'll walk back. You're free until this evening."

Giving the door a little push, it snapped shut and the dark sedan pulled back out into traffic.

Harry was left standing on the pavement, looking up at the building on front of him.

"Right," he murmured, quite to himself. Then, steeling his stomach against the sudden and quite uncharacteristic surge of nerves, he started up the steps towards the offices.

The meeting was not going to be an enjoyable one. He had escaped execution at his tribunal, this morning, because someone had jammed the guillotine. Whomever it was would have ulterior motives. They would want something from him or of him. And Harry was going to have to decide, once he knew who and what, whether he was going to accept. If he didn't, the blade would fall down on him again but there were some lines he would not cross, he told himself, taking a steadying sigh. There were some paths he would not follow. Becoming someone's lackey, or selling his loyalties, would make it impossible to do his job and, therefore, pointless for him to stay. There had to be balance, thought Harry, stepping forwards up the steps to the great Home Office doors. It was all about balance.

.

Heading inside, he climbed the stairs up to the Home Secretary's domain. Passing through the quiet, dark-wooded halls – more traditional than the architecture downstairs, which was all of modern glass and steel – he found William Towers at the rear of the building, in one of the conference rooms. He was on the phone, when Harry knocked and entered.

"Yes, yes I'll tell him," as he glanced up, Harry noticed a faint look of relief on his face and felt a corresponding surge of unease. Whatever this was, it had Towers nervous enough to want to see him. That could not be good. "Yes, I've got Harry here, now. No, John, that won't be necessary."

John.

Harry did a mental run-through of all the Johns he knew, wondering if one of them could be the reason behind his release.

The head of the SIS was a John. As were the branch chiefs in New York, Shanghai and Rio de Jeneiro. None of the owed him a favour, however, (in fact, a few owed him quite the opposite). He had saved the life of a John Yates, during his earliest secondment to Six. That was a possibility, Harry thought. The man had later become something of an 'M' to their most deniable officers. Yes, John Yates was influential and owed him but... alas, he had no motive. There was a John Natsby who he and Juliet had put into the early rungs of government, he recalled. It had been several years ago, now, but the man had now climbed to rather impressive heights – a shadow minister involved in defence. He was hardly a likely candidate, however. His political position was not firm enough to support a maverick like Harry and their link was deniable at best.

So what other Johns, then, Harry mused to himself. John McKade, who he had known from the army and was now a Major. John Spinney, whose nose he had broken on the University rugby team. John Kittner, who had been in his primary seven class? Why did he remember that, of all things, he wondered, as Towers finished up his phone call. Why on earth would his brain think that John Kittner's was a relevant name to remember? Why had it not filled that space with something a little more relevant, such as a map of the Underground, bus timetables for central London, clearance codes or, perhaps, an entire annotated script of everything he had ever said to Ruth – so that he could look back and figure out where exactly he had gone so wrong?

Across the way, Towers nodded one last time, then bid whichever John it was, on the phone, goodbye and turned to Harry, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"This whole situation has been the mother of all cock-ups," he grumbled, moving around to lean on the back of one of the meeting room chairs. "Do you realise the amount of flak I've had to take, over your possible removal, just six months before the diamond Jubilee and less than a year before our country hosts the Olympics? You're our bloody head of Counterterrorism, Harry. What were you thinking, putting yourself in a position where we had no choice but to fire you?"

Harry watched, stoically, reigning in the urge to sarcastically agree how selfish he had been. Towers didn't want to hear him speak. He wanted to vent and then he wanted to explain what was going on. The quickest way for them to get to the interesting part was for Harry just to keep his mouth shut.

"Have you any idea the amount of time and money which has gone into your surveillance, your tribunal, handling the media impact of it all, getting replacement staff in to manage in your absence?" the Home Secretary continued.

Yes, thought Harry. He chalked it up to around ten thousand pounds; toy money, for men like the one standing across from him. His irritation, then, was due to something else. And it could not just be inconvenience. Towers was used to Harry being an inconvenience.

"Good God, Harry," the older man muttered, darkly, "I had half a bloody mind to let them have you."

Harry folded his hands on front of him, outwardly maintaining impassivity, inwardly wondering why the Home Secretary had stuck his neck out. He held one of the great offices of the country, but he was hardly all powerful. He could bleed and he would bleed, if he aligned himself to Harry – to whom so many metaphorical bullets were aimed. It must have been a need greater than the desire not to look foolish then, Harry reasoned, scanning Towers' face for any sign of what this might all be about.

"It is to you that I owe my reprieve, then?" he asked, eventually, when it was clear that Towers was done with his grumbling.

The Home Secretary gave a wry little smile.

"Of course it is, Harry. Who else is so fond of you?"

"How did you manage it?"

"Would you believe me that I managed to swing it on your winning personality?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Towers sighed and straightened up again, walking to the window to look out over the city. His face was tired, his expression vexed and a little less sure than Harry was used to seeing him. It made him look smaller, somehow.

"I'm afraid we have a situation," he started, softly.

This sounded more like it. Explanation on the horizon.

Harry shifted, sliding hands into his coat pockets, watching Towers from across the room.

"What sort of situation?"

"A complicated one. Did you catch wind of the security breach Vauxhall Cross had, several days ago?"

Harry nodded. He might have been out of the game, but twenty-odd years of assets kept him well informed. Apparently, some asset had escaped from medical detention and attempted an escape, before being stopped by security. A security officer had been shot in the leg during the event, but no casualties had been listed on the report and everything had been contained.

"Failed escape, I heard."

"Well," Towers turned back to him, face anxious. "The situation was a tad more serious than we leaked to the lower echelons." He paused and Harry frowned, interest piqued. "John broke a story that a hostile asset had escaped from the medical detention centre and attempted escape but was captured – no casualties, no injuries, no real risk. The truth was that two officers were injured and John himself was shot in the leg, during a meeting, in his office."

Harry's eyebrows slid up. He couldn't help himself.

"In his own office?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What a glowing testament to SIS security."

Towers shot him a nasty look.

"You know, its comments like that which make it difficult for people to like you..."

Harry ignored him. "Who was the shooter and what happened to him?"

"Her."

Harry frowned. The implication in the Home Secretary's voice was more than a mere correction of gender.

"Her?" he asked, dipping an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Harry, the shooter was Bethan Shayne."

The room hung in silence. Harry just stared. Then, he let out a sarcastic little laugh and looked about himself – more than half expecting the Home Secretary to laugh too and retract his previous statement, pronounce the whole situation as a badly-timed joke. When he didn't, however, the sinking feeling in his stomach increased exponentially.

Bethan Shayne... now that was a blast from the past. As strange as it was to hear her name, now, however, it did nothing to make the situation any clearer. The Shayne Harry had known and worked with was simply not the sort of person you could believe had walked into a government building and shot her boss. It simply did not fit. Stepping forwards, then, Harry placed his hands, palm-down, on the Home Secretary's desk and faced the government minister, frowning darkly.

"Bethan Shayne?" he asked, receiving a nod for his troubles. "You're telling me that _Bethan Shayne_ walked into her SIS Chief's office, in Vauxhall Cross, and shot him in the leg?"

Towers nodded again.

"Yes. Right in the middle of a meeting between the SIS Chief, the Foreign Secretary, myself and several key government officials. I imagine my being here is the only reason I know about it, now," the politician added. "Official Secrets Acts being what they are..."

"Are they are absolutely sure that the shooter was Shayne?" Harry asked again, just to confirm. It didn't make sense... none of this made sense... and what did it have to do with him, anyways? "We have CCTV evidence?"

Towers nodded and, reaching inside the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a thick manila file. Tossing it down on the table in front of Harry, he then leant back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, frowning. Harry looked down at the file. Shayne's face stared up at him; caught on an internal surveillance camera, unmistakable and levelling a gun at a man who was (also quite unmistakably) the SIS Chief.

He let out a long, slow breath.

This was insane. This couldn't be Shayne, could it? Shayne would never have done something like this.

She had been such a quiet little spook, Harry thought, when he had first met her in Paris. Overshadowed under Juliet Shaw's flash style of leadership, she had been overlooked by many people, including him. Over the years, she had risen through the ranks, despite her unassuming personality. She had even been considered for being new Branch Chief in London, last summer, before being passed over for a more experienced candidate. She was an undoubtedly excellent officer, though, Harry thought, picking the photo off the front of the file and examining it more closely. Loyal, highly skilled and fully committed, she was one of the old guard who he had assumed would always be a feature in Six's shadowy black-op programme, steering the good ship in the right direction, where she could.

And she was influential. She might have been a quiet spook but, even in her years as a junior officer, she had run more assets than the rest of their team combined. Now, rumour had it, if Six wanted to know something about another's service's defence protocols, she was the woman they turned to. Rumour had it, she had people in every major intelligence agency around the world.

She had always been smarter than Juliet, Harry thought, wryly. She had understood that knowledge, not position, was real power. She had her faults, of course, and some of them were fairly serious. She was unfailingly loyal to the establishment, for example, easily swayed by the opinions of her superiors and a bit too much of a pragmatist. If you were a pragmatist in this game, Harry had realised over the years, you eventually ended up bowing to the overwhelming horror of it all. To succeed, to stay alive, you needed to hold onto an ideal. You needed to make what you did every day into something _more_ than just a job. Perhaps that was where Shayne had failed. Perhaps she had bowed to the horror, like so many others had.

God...

He pulled the photograph free of the front of the file, turning it over in his hand.

Shayne... burnt out... turned traitor... It didn't seem real.

Looking down at her face, Harry realised he had not thought any more about Shayne since she had been passed over for the promotion to Branch Chief, last June. What with the events of the last few months, it had completely slipped his mind to look any further into what his old colleague was up to nowadays – how she was faring. He had assumed that had gone back to Africa and resumed whatever nefarious coup Six were facilitating there. But here she hadn't. Here she was, shooting Intelligence officials within his own city. He should have kept a closer eye, he thought, running his eyes over Shayne's personnel details and service record page. He should have known that friends who last long enough to become old friends were more than capable of making the jump to new enemies. God, it had happened often enough.

Across the way, Towers gave a sigh, jerking the newly reinstated Section Head back to the present.

"Will you please have a seat, Harry," he muttered, rubbing a tired-looking hand over his tired-looking forehead. "I feel tired just looking at you."

Harry relaxed his shoulders but elected politely not to take a seat. The subject matter was loaded and he, for one, would rather be standing. Standing allowed him to be able to get out of here quickly, once he knew what was going on. He did pick up the rest of Shayne's personnel file, however. He had never had access to the unabridged version before and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity. After all, the Home Secretary could well take it back off of him at the end of their meeting.

"Why did she do it?" he asked, using the manila folder to gesture towards Towers before opening it and perusing the first page.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you until you agree to help rectify the situation."

"What situation?" Harry asked, reflexively, before realising (with an internal roll of his eyes), that Towers probably couldn't tell him that either – Official Secrets Acts being what they were and all that. Deciding to assume, for now, that the 'situation' was some sort of security breach created by Shayne breaking in and shooting the Chief of the SIS, he pushed forwards again, altering the direction of his questions. "Why do you need me?"

"Well, aside from using the situation as an excuse to bring you back in from the cold," Towers answered, "I actually require your personal knowledge on the subject."

Harry paused, mid-way through a paragraph on Bethan Shayne's activities in Sierra Leone, in '96. The Home Secretary's words had been voiced in a careful tone, one which implied that the 'personal knowledge' they were seeking from him was of a delicate nature. They probably wanted it to use against her. Well they would be disappointed, Harry thought, to himself. He knew nothing about Bethan Shayne which they could use against her. He had not been close to her for over twenty years.

"I hate to disappoint, William," he said, looking up, "but we were colleagues, first and foremost. Friends, at a push. Nothing more. I don't have any juicy information."

"But you are the only one who has known her since she joined the Service and has kept in contact, over the years."

"Contact in a professional sense," Harry pressed, cautiously. If Towers and Six thought he could break Shayne, in interrogation – find out why she had done what she did – then they would be sorely mistaken. Bethan Shayne had been trained in the same military programmes as he and she had years of field experience. She had been held prisoner by enemy combatants three times, during her service, and she had never broken. She would not break for an old friend like him. "There are others far more qualified to play quizmaster," Harry continued. "I won't find out why she did this anytime soon. Shayne is highly trained at resisting interrogation and, despite my sordid reputation, I was never actually much good at it."

"It's not that," Towers answered, quietly, then after a moment's pause, added "there's no need for a quizmaster, Harry. Six don't actually _have_ her."

Harry frowned.

"Pardon?"

"They didn't catch her," the older man repeated. "After the shooting, she followed an escape route out of the building. She was gone from the vicinity before security found us, locked in John's office."

Harry stared. This was unbelievable. He had not expected this at all.

"I'm sorry," he began, still a little overcome by what he had heard. "Are saying that Bethan Shayne walked into the SIS Chief's office in Vauxhall Cross, shot him and imprisoned the rest of you in there, then simply walked back out again?"

There was a long pause.

"Yes."

Harry stared. Then, after another few seconds had passed and Towers had not elaborated, he spluttered, "And I suppose I'm here to magically locate her and bring her in?"

Another pause.

"If you'll agree to, yes."

Harry blinked, completely overcome, now.

"If I'll agree to. You do realise how completely ridiculous this is?" he asked, eventually, when Towers refused to say anything else. "What I said before stands true; I have absolutely no more knowledge of where Shayne has gone than you do. Tell me, William, why me? Why not Internal Affairs – or Six, for God's sake? She's their officer!"

Towers leant forwards, slightly, folding his hands atop the desk.

"I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than you know."

.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4 – The Mole_

.

_Tuesday 6__th__ December, 2011_

.

Ruth was in early, the next morning, hell-bent on situating herself at her desk and appropriating a face of calm before Harry arrived and she dissolved into her usual mess of nerves. The extra forty minutes she had given herself were in vain, however. As she stepped through the glass security doors at quarter past seven, she found her newly reinstated boss already pacing in the window of his office, phone pressed to his ear and a frown on his face. Erin Watts was watching his steps from somewhere near his desk.

By their body language, she decided that they must have dispensed with formal introductions the previous day. While there was tension in their shoulders, it was not focussed towards each other. The initial posturing stage must be over then, she figured. They must have already assessed each other and decided that they could work together easily enough. Ruth was glad. While they were not yet what she would refer to as 'friends', she was growing used to Erin. They worked well enough together – probably would work better, now that some of the responsibility was taken off the younger woman's slender shoulders.

Watching Harry pace, Ruth wondered what they had been called in early to deal with. It looked serious. Should she go to her station, then, or head through and join them? If something was afoot, she was bound to be wrapped up in it sooner or later. Of course, she countered to herself, this could all simply be something to do with the handover. Maybe she should just keep her nose out.

She never got around to having to make the decision, however. After just a moment of her standing there, Harry turned in his pacing and caught sight of her, through the window. Giving his head a little jerk, he indicated that he wanted her to join them and, taking a steadying breath, Ruth walked through.

Inside the office, she was greeted with a short 'morning', from Erin, and a wordless look of exasperation from Harry, who directed her with a wave of his hand towards a thick manila file that was lying on his desk. It was an SIS personnel file, Ruth realised, as she stepped over and picked it up. A SIS file formed prior to 1994, if the small sticker in the upper left-hand corner was anything to go by. The number listed there was of an old archiving station that the SIS had used before having Vauxhall Cross as their headquarters. Though another number was printed underneath, suggesting this file had recently been moved to centralised storage, the original told Ruth that whomever the file belonged to had been in the service a long time. Frowning at the small officer identification number at the top, she flipped open the first page to investigate further.

'Bethan Shayne' was printed across the top – a name which Ruth could not immediately place but felt an instinctive sting of familiarity to. She must have read it somewhere, once upon a time, she thought, continuing further down the page. Having read it somewhere, of course, did little to narrow the matter down any. As a technical analyst for the largest domestic security service in the country, she had read a great number of things somewhere, once upon a time. She rarely held onto anything without importance, however...

Licking her finger, she used it to flick over the first page and onto the second, where personal details and personnel numbers appeared between lines which had been obliterated – CIA style – with thick black marker. Next to her, Harry continued to argue down the phone line.

"Yes, I understand the tentative nature of the situation," he was growling, at whatever poor unfortunate was on the other end. "What I'm asking is a fair exchange of information." He had a face like thunder, Ruth thought, glancing up between lists of Senior Branch Chief Bethan Shayne's previous secondment dates. Whatever was going on, he wasn't pleased. "Bugger it, Neil, I'm working to a finite deadline, here," Harry continued to rumble quietly. "Can we desist with the attitude and the second-guessing?"

On Ruth's other side, Erin folded her arms and paced over. Sensing the possibility of an explanation, the analyst lifted her eyes from details of Bethan Shayne's commendations and shot her an enquiring look. All she received in reply, however, was a short shake of the head and a brief, muttered "we'll go through it in a moment."

Ruth nodded and looked back down at the file.

As it turned out, however, she did not have long to wait until Harry was finished with his call.

"Well, I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?" her boss snapped, with a slight curl of his lip. Another pause, then a very sarcastic, "please inform your superior of my undying gratitude, for his cooperation." Then the phone was set none too gently back down into the cradle.

Erin and Ruth both averted their eyes for a moment, letting Harry's bad mood fester in silence and waiting for him to make the first move. Eventually he did, letting out a low sigh and a word which may or not have been 'pretentious bastard' underneath his breath. When he turned to his subordinates, however, a certain level of animosity lifted from his gaze.

"You're in early," he directed to Ruth, first of all.

Feeling her cheeks threaten to flush, Ruth gave a curt nod and speedily redirected conversation onto the subject matter at hand. She didn't have the wherewithal, this morning, to field slightly veiled references to their relationship (or lack, thereof). She was nowhere near awake or prepared enough to make up an excuse for why she had come in early (to try and prepare herself for working with him again). The actual work, however, she could deal with. The work, she was good at.

"So, who is Bethan Shayne?" she asked, raising the file slightly.

"Ah, that..." Harry's expression soured again as he looked down at it. "An old friend."

He glanced over at Erin, who took his glance as a cue to set explanations rolling.

"Bethan Shayne," she said, turning to face Ruth more openly, "is a veteran officer of the Secret Intelligence Service. She is of particular interest to us because, a few days ago, she walked into SIS headquarters and held the SIS Chief, the Foreign Secretary, the Home Secretary and several government officials at gunpoint, before shooting her CO in the leg and fleeing the scene."

Ruth blinked, in surprise.

"I'm sorry – she did what?"

"Shot the Chief of the SIS in the leg," Erin confirmed what Ruth had heard (though it was little easier to believe the second time the analyst heard it). "It seemed to be some sort of personally motivated act. She told him he would bleed out before security realised there was anything afoot. He didn't, of course," she added, unnecessarily. "Security were informed by an anonymous call, once she was out of the building, that he needed assistance. They got there in time to avert any serious damage."

"So he is okay?" Ruth asked.

"He's been better, but he'll live." Erin reached out and took the file in Ruth's hands, flipping right through to the back and folding the preceding pages over the spine in order to show her an incident report. "This is Six's account of what happened, including their suggestions on how Bethan Shayne managed to get out of London SIS headquarters, past their supposedly airtight security."

Ruth felt her eyebrows slip up slightly.

"She got away?"

"She was never one for getting into a situation without an exit strategy," Harry told her quietly, from the side. He had his arms folded across his chest and a strangely melancholy expression on his face. That, paired with his previous use of 'an old friend', in explanation of who Bethan Shayne was, sparked a memory deep in Ruth's brain.

Bethan Shayne. She had worked in Paris, under Juliet Shaw, at the same time as Harry, during his secondment to Six. They had been on the same five-man field team. That was where she had heard the name before, Ruth realised. She had read about a Bethan Shayne in _Harry's_ file.

Though she would never admit it – not to him or to anyone else – Ruth had been through Harry's a great number of times more than was strictly necessary, over the years. It had started as idle curiosity and developed, along with her growing infatuation, into a bit of an obsession. Obviously, there were parts of his history which Ruth did not have clearance to access but, the parts that she did, she knew very well indeed. She knew about his time in Paris with Six, for example, and all the people he had worked with there. Bethan Shayne, if Ruth remembered correctly, had been one of them; a junior field officer who had later been elevated to Juliet's second-in-command. Before that, however, she had been Harry's partner in the field. They had been jointly honoured, on one occasion, for saving a visiting American dignitary.

There was no evidence, on paper, that their relationship was anything more than professional. As Erin handed Ruth back the file, however, and the analyst looked down at the photographed face of Bethan Shayne, Ruth wondered if she had been more. She was pretty enough, at twenty-four years old – slight and blonde, with high cheekbones and gracefully arched brows – and they had certainly had plenty of opportunity. Had she been one of Harry's girls, then, Ruth wondered? Was she one of the list of names from his misspent youth – one of the string of affairs he ended his marriage by bedding?

"You worked together in Paris, didn't you?" she, to distract herself from the irrationally uncomfortable thought of her boss's younger self, naked and entwined against this other woman.

Across the way, Harry nodded.

"Correct. During my secondment to Six."

"Is that why Towers brought you back?" Ruth asked, closing the front page of the file and looking back up at him. "Do you have some insight into why she did this, or how to bring her in?"

Her boss sighed.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple." He rubbed one thumb over the knuckles of his opposite hand – a distracted, anxious tic.

This was bad, thought Ruth, watching him. This was more serious than an officer's mental breakdown and the collateral damage it left in its wake.

"It's rather a long explanation," Harry eventually began, apology in his tone. "According to the SIS Chief and her direct superior in her local Branch, Shayne has been working for the last three years in Algiers, running a highly trained team of intelligence-gathering officers. One of their tasks was to infiltrate an influential Al-Qaeda cell, but I suspect there were many others – each probably more illegal than the last." Ruth's boss paused there, presumably catching himself before launching into the usual tirade against their secret sister service. After a moment or two, he continued, his tone more neutral this time. "Supposedly, elements of Shayne's team became involved with a local 'freedom fighter', supplying arms in exchange for information and financial arrangements."

"Her people went rogue? How many of them?"

"Six's working theory is all six." Harry shifted, uneasily. Betrayals of this sort seemed to bother him more, now, than they had in the past. Perhaps it was Connie and Lucas and everything that had happened to him, since they had met, Ruth thought. Perhaps it was just the weariness setting in. He looked more tired, now, than he had used to, exhausted by all of it. "They were all shot by the men they were selling arms to, in what looks like an ambush."

"Was Shayne there?" Ruth asked.

"Supposedly," he answered, after a pause. "It is unclear why, or who started the shooting, but the result was twelve casualties at the scene – including all the officers on Shayne's team. Shayne, herself, received a gunshot wound to the abdomen but pulled through in hospital. She was shipped back to the UK to recover, during which time she was cleared from culpability and her team were labelled traitors. According to her file, she was only discharged from Six's medical 'recovery' facility last week."

"...and she went straight to Vauxhall Cross," Ruth finished, with a sigh.

It made sense, in the twisted way that things made sense, in their world.

Ruth knew hard a betrayal like that could be. She still had trouble rectifying Lucas North with the man he was, underneath. She could only imagine how Bethan Shayne would have felt, to find that all six of her field team had betrayed her. If she had fallen to denial, over it, then it was very possible that she would target the superiors who had named her team 'traitors'. It made sense that she had gone to Vauxhall Cross. What didn't make sense, however, was her having shot the SIS Chief in the leg and then left.

When people have psychotic breaks and go on revenge sprees, Ruth knew, they usually ended up taking their own life, or committing suicide by law enforcement. It would have been easy for Shayne to manipulate the situation so that Security had no option but to gun her down. So why had she ended it the way she did? Why give herself an exit? Was there more to come?

"Does Towers think she has some spectacular end game planned?" the analyst asked Harry. It was the only reason she could imagine, for why the Home Secretary had brought him back. Run down Shayne and stop her, before she did something terrible.

Harry nodded. "They think she might try and make some big statement – risk security breaches by trying to make what happened public. She refuses to believe that her team betrayed her."

Ruth nodded, though a quiet voice in the back of her mind continued to whisper that, while having Shayne loose in London was a domestic terrorism issue (and, therefore, MI5's problem), it did not _specifically_ require Harry. Erin would have been more than capable of debriefing him of everything he knew, on the matter of Shayne, and then dealing with the situation herself.

"Without meaning to sound offensive," she eventually stated, careful not to sound ungrateful that he was back, "this sounds like a simple case of an officer turning against her superiors. Surely internal affairs could run her down? Why would the Service need you as well?"

To her side, Erin Watts shifted, looking a little awkward at the frankness of her question. Most people who spoke to Harry did so with a cushion of propriety, in deference to his rank and title. Ruth, however, had learned over the years that he preferred to cut to the chase. He hated pomp and waffle. So, she had always endeavoured to be succinct. She realised that this only perpetuated the rumour that she and Harry were more personally intimate than they had admitted, during the tribunal, but it was how they worked best. It was how they had worked best for years. And she saw no point in changing it now.

"Fetching Shayne home is not – in itself – worth risking political backlash of saving you," Ruth pushed her point.

"Indeed," Harry agreed, with a nod and just a hint of pride in his eyes. "There's more to it than that." Giving a short sigh, he moved over to his desk and stood behind it, thigh resting against the edge of it as he leaned. He was tired, Ruth noted. It was only just past seven in the morning and he was already tired. It did not speak well for what he was doing yesterday evening. This complication must be a bad one. "When Shayne was holding Towers and company she kept going off on tangents, quoting literature, claiming conspiracies – the usual deranged ravings," Harry said, with a hint of a wince. "Before she shot the SIS chief, however – while she was checking that their handcuffs were secure – she slipped a USB drive into the Home Secretary's hand."

Ruth raised her eyebrows.

Old spies breaking into mysterious headquarters, betrayal, secret notes and hostages; it was all so stereotypically 'Bond'.

"This was all an excuse for a drop?" she asked Harry incredulously.

Across the way, he nodded. "It seems that way. And it worked." Giving a little sigh, he began to tap his fingers nervously against his desk. An old nervous tic. "Anyway," he finally began again, "showing a streak of brilliance which I never would have expected of him, the Home Secretary kept quiet about the USB device until after he and the others were safely back in their respective offices. There, he had his technical people check the stick for viruses, etcetera, and watched it – finding a video message."

"What did it say?"

"That MI5 is seriously compromised, that Six are somewhat responsible, and that they have decided to cover their tracks rather than tell us – to avoid legal implications."

"A mole?"

"High up. With good access. According to Shayne, Six put him there, but he turned rogue for financial gain. Shayne had been the one handling him, through email dead-drops. She and one of her people were the ones who realised what he was up to. When they tried to bring him in, he apparently set them up, selling out their position to hostile local militia."

"Shit."

"Indeed." Harry swallowed.

A long moment passed, in silence, as Ruth ran through all of what Harry had told her in her head.

"Do we believe this then?" she asked, eventually, when she had analysed all the data they had and concluded that neither one of their options was an entirely water-tight story. Either Shayne was a madwoman, who inexplicably walked away from the opportunity to finish off several high-ranking intelligence officials and off herself, or she was really trying to uncover a mole and right the injustice done to her people – albeit in a slightly mad manner.

Harry and Erin looked at each other, clearly having hashed out the same question before Ruth arrived.

"God knows," the latter eventually stated. "Buggered if we can ignore it, however. And a mole _would_ explain anomalies in operational security that we have had, in the past few months."

Ruth looked between her Section Head and the Section Chief.

"But," she posed, softly, after a moment, "if this mole is real, couldn't Shayne have simply told us who he is?"

Harry shook his head. "She was handling him, but she never knew his identity or position, within the Service. The fact that we're referring to him as a 'him' is simply because his handle was a male name. 'Vincent'. In truth," Harry admitted, with a sigh, "he – or she – could be anyone."

A long, quiet moment passed, then Ruth asked, quietly.

"But why did Towers need _you_?" She felt a little silly stressing it, but it didn't quite make sense. All of this was terrible, yes, but not outside Erin's capabilities of dealing with. Why Harry? Why did Towers need Harry?

Leaning forwards slightly, against his desk, Ruth's boss fixed her in his slightly softened gaze. Against the red backdrop of his office wall, his eyes looked warmer than usual, almost an amber colour. She had missed those eyes, Ruth thought, with a slightly too-warm feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had missed him being here.

"In her message," he told her, softly, "Shayne told him that I was the only one who she could be sure was clean. Apparently, when he was placed within Five, they put him as far away from my Section as possible – on Shayne's advice that I was a paranoid, suspicious bastard. Now, she figures that we're the best chance they have of uncovering him. He has access to all Sections except for D. We can use our internal network to search for him without arousing his suspicion. As long as nothing goes on the record, that is." He gave a wry little smile. "In trying to protect him, Six have made us the perfect team for bringing him down. If he's real."

"Which is highly possible," Erin chipped in, from the side.

Ruth watched them both, not entirely sure on which side of the fence she lay.

From her past experience, rooting around inside the servers of Five and Six, she knew that it was more than possible for a single operative to gain information and remove it from the network. There was also a high demand for said information in the private sector and on the black market. Keeping such a situation up over a long period of time, however – such as the 'months' that Erin and Harry had referred to this mole being rogue for – was difficult. There were stringent security checks. It was almost certain that someone would have flagged that the information had been accessed and copied, or that an officer was rooting around where he shouldn't be. If he was real, she thought, this mole must be very skilled indeed to have avoided detection. And Erin was right, they couldn't take the risk.

"So where do you want me to start?" she asked Harry, steeling herself for the inevitable onslaught of bitty, detailed investigation she was going to have to do, of access rights and employee records.

"Our official remit is that we're chasing Shayne," her boss answered, solidly. "So, for the moment, I just need you to run down everything you can find on her – and I mean everything," he stressed. "Start on what they've given us. You can have Tariq after our briefing, later, and get a little deeper. That," he pointed at the file in her hands, "is a severely abridged version of her file and we're going to need the real one if we're going to get anywhere with this."

Ruth nodded.

"Anything else?" she asked, feeling very slightly dazed – both by the turn of events and simply being back beside Harry again.

It had been so long since they had seen each other. They had kept their distance, all through the tribunal. Being back here together, after all that had happened, felt almost surreal. But good. And very like old times. In the space of the last thirty seconds, Ruth's eyes had caught on Harry's and their shared gaze had formed one of those strange moments – the type she didn't notice happening until it was too late to stop. It was like being stuck in molasses. She could not drag her eyes away. She could not move, or speak, or anything. The moment carried. Harry watched her back, eyes a little amber against the backdrop of red wall.

"No," he eventually answered, voice now a little softer than it should have been. "We'll hold back on an investigation into the mole until we decide how to approach the matter, as a team. Just concentrate on Shayne for now."

Ruth nodded, sensing the end of the conversation, knowing that if she didn't look away now and get back to work, then it would start to look strange. After holding onto his gaze just a few seconds longer, then, she hooked her eyes away and stepped back a pace, half-turning to the door.

"Right. I'll get to it then."

"Thank you."

Avoiding looking at Erin, who could not possibly have missed such a blatant display of interest, Ruth hastened from the room. She made it all the way to her desk and had sat down behind it before allowing herself a glance back at the glass wall of her boss's office. Behind it, she was relieved to see that conversation had gone on, from where she had left it. Harry and his new Section Chief were deep in discussion, wearing serious expressions and gesticulating every now and then. Going over the finer details of their case with Shayne, thought Ruth, or talking through the handover.

After a while, Erin nodded to their boss and the conversation seemed to reach an end. As Ruth busied herself back in logging onto her system and sorting out her files for the day, Erin exited the office and made her way back to her own station, heels clicking loudly against the hard floor. Picking up her phone, she started to make a call – her disinterest coming as a great relief to Ruth, who had been half-fearing a scathing response to the earlier Harry-watching. The new Section Chief had other matters on her mind, however, and soon Ruth did too.

Her attention was drawn over to the glass security doors, again, as Dimitri Levendis and young Tariq Masood appeared in their frame, chatting animatedly about something, happy carefree looks on their faces. They would not be smiling at all soon, thought Ruth, watching as they made their way inside and over to Calum Reid, hard at work already at his own desk. From what Ruth had already read of her file, Shayne was an excellent and experienced field agent. Capturing her was going to be a trying experience. And, if her mole was real, then they were in for an even longer ride.

Dimitri and Tariq had chased one of their own before, but did Erin and Calum know what it was like? There would be no outsmarting his target, with protocol, Ruth reminded herself. He was a trained officer of her majesty's secret service. There would be no hiding behind technology, either. Their enemy would be as familiar as they and, from the details Shayne had given them, very adept at using it. They were on home territory, but so was their target and he had had months to prepare an exit strategy. The only advantage they had was that the mole didn't know that they knew about him. And that was a tentative advantage, thought Ruth – easily broken by some stray piece of information, or looking too closely in the right direction. They were going to have to be very careful.

After a few minutes of rifling through Shayne's file again, Ruth's eyes drifted irreversibly back up to Harry's office wall and she felt a strangely comforting warmth in her stomach, to find him pacing back and forth, there, on the phone again. Whatever was happening, it was good to have him back. She had missed him so very dreadfully. Erin was a good boss, in many ways, but Harry was just Harry. Section D was his place. He just seemed to fit here. Better than anyone else.

Footsteps sounding at her shoulder caused Ruth to jerk back to reality, just in time to see Calum Reid following her eye-line over to Harry and back again. Fighting down a blush, she asked him how she could help, doing her very best to pretend that he had not just caught her staring at their boss.

"Just a couple of names to run," Calum told her, handing over a file with a playful little smile. "If you're not too busy, that is."

Ruth's cheeks did flush slightly, at that, and she turned her face to the file to hide them from Calum's view. The man was a good enough analyst and a decent field officer, but he had a habit of picking at anything personal until it bled. It was all in good fun and curiosity was hardly an unusual trait for a spy, but Ruth didn't feel like sharing this joke with him. Herself and Harry was a sensitive subject. Best to set boundaries early on for what was acceptable humorous material and what was not.

"What format do you want them in?" she asked, flicking through the papers she had handed him.

"Plain, with attachments on previous employment," Calum told her, still looking slightly tickled at her response to being caught, staring. Perhaps he was delighted to find that the rumours were true, or perhaps he had won some bet with another member of staff. Ruth could not tell.

Well you know what, she thought to herself, as she took the files from him and gave them a quick scan through – screw them. Screw the pools and the bets and the silly juvenile rumours. She and Harry were what they were. She had tried for years to change it, to no avail. She couldn't change how he felt about her, by pushing him away. She couldn't change how she felt about him, not matter how hard she tried. And, after her near-death experience at John Bateman's hands, she didn't want to waste another minute pretending to be someone that she was not. Such was the road to ruin.

"I'll have them by eleven," she told the younger officer, refusing to look ashamed or blush as she raised her eyes to meet his again. Screw what he thought, she told herself, boldly. So she watched Harry sometimes. What of it? She had watched him for years. It didn't affect her work, any. They were what they were. Calum and the others were just going to have to deal with it. "I'll send them over to your station," she told him, calmly.

The younger officer's reply, if he had one, was cut off by the arrival of Erin, pacing quickly over from her desk.

"Briefing room now," she ordered him, motioning towards the large meeting room at the other end of the Grid. "Bring Tariq and Dimitri."

Calum sighed as he watched her go, then turned his eyes back to Ruth.

"Once more into the breach, then?" he asked, hanging at her shoulder to see if she was going to be joining them.

Ruth shook her head. She had already been briefed. Besides,

"Too busy," she explained.

Calum nodded.

There was a small, unspoken '_touché'_ in his eyes, as he smiled and walked away.

.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5 – The Drop_

.

_Friday 9__th__ December, 2011 _

.

In Calum Reid's eyes, the return of Harry Pearce to Section D was both a blessing and a curse.

It was a blessing because it had been Calum's ambition, since he joined the Service, to work with the man whose operations were still used in basic training as examples of good field-craft. Harry was, not to put it bluntly, a legend. He had outlasted all other Section Heads of counter-terrorism by four years, now, and looked set to continue indefinitely - after his miraculous survival of the Albany fiasco. From his file and from what Calum had seen, first person, Harry was an excellent spy. The younger officer would be able to learn a lot from him. He would be able to learn a lot from him, that was, if he had not turned into an awkward tool every time they were in the same vicinity.

Harry hadn't said anything since he had been back (Calum expected he was just far too busy) but the younger officer felt like an impostor every time their eyes met, across the Grid. The truth was, he had applied many times, over the years, to join Section D, but Harry had always turned down those applications - for a number of reasons. It wasn't until Erin Watts, his old Section Chief and friend, had been transferred over to serve as Harry's temporary replacement that he had even had a look-in. For this reason, he felt like he had got into D behind Harry's back. He had spent the last few days half expecting to be called into the great glass-fronted Section Head office, given a bollocking for his nerve, and be told he was being transferred back to A.

It didn't help his insecurities, Calum thought, that everyone else seemed to be relieved that Harry was back on the scene - okay, well maybe not everyone. Erin was her usual tense, slight neurotic self. Dimitri was much more relaxed, though, and Tariq seemed borderline overjoyed by the prospect of being back in close contact with his boss and leader again. And as for Ruth...

Calum hadn't quite been clued-in, as to exactly what had happened between the analyst and their boss, until he had seen them together. When Erin had briefed him on the situation, prior to joining the team, he had assumed they'd been having some sort of lust-driven affair. Seeing them firsthand, however, Calum was forced to deduce that it was nothing so common.

Ruth watched Harry. Harry watched Ruth. They worked together in that sort of intimate way which showed they had known each other well for years. But neither ever broached a distance barrier of about two feet and neither ever mentioned anything personal. Ever.

It was all a little beyond Calum, to be honest – the repressed longing, the long-cast looks at each other, the entire dynamic. In order to cope with working with the pair of them, he decided to set it aside for the time being to analyse later. Ruth had already given him a little snap, for inquiring too closely, and he didn't want to give Harry any reason to dislike him. He had spent far too long getting here to be sent back to A Section on a disciplinary. Not that counterterrorism was working out to be any more thrilling.

Sitting on front of his computer, Calum watched the clock tick over to his tenth hour on duty. He should take a break, he thought, pop out to lunch, get some coffee, something, but he was just far too busy. They had Bethan Shayne to chase down. They had her mole – who may or may not be real – to figure out. And, with a current threat rolling in this morning, it had all been left on _his_ system.

It was down to him, it seemed, to run down the remainder of the Shayne-related tasks, while Ruth ran off to save the world. The only problem was, there were only a limited number of hours and – despite his best efforts, in his youth – Calum was not actually a wizard. He could not magically make tasks happen in half the amount of time it took for them to run on his system. He could not perform multiple cross-searches whilst translating three different scripts, on the phone to both GCHQ and Special Branch. He wished he had Ruth's secret powers of analysis, but he didn't. He couldn't walk in her shoes, at least not at the same speed that she could. It was giving him blisters.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he leant forwards a little in his chair and tried to keep his mind off the gnawing hunger in his stomach. So far, they were getting nowhere fast with the Shayne case. They had not managed to find out whether her claim of a mole carried any more weight than idle words and, after briefly finding her on CCTV yesterday morning, she had managed to drop completely off the map. Tariq had programs running to try and trace her but Calum, personally, thought that was a waste of time. Shayne was a professional black ops officer, in one of Six's most dangerous Branches. She would have perfected the art of staying invisible long ago. How they were going to find her, then, he told himself, was through the sort of thing he was doing now – figuring out what really went down that night when six of her team had turned up dead.

There would be something in here, he told himself, trawling through yet another report of Bethan Shayne's exploits abroad. Somewhere in here, there would be a sentence which made everything else fall into place. It would lead him to another sentence which would reveal if Shayne's people were traitors or not, which would reveal – in turn – whether they had a mole to deal with. And, then, how Shayne had learned about it. And when he found that out, Calum thought, Harry would be so damned pleased that his job would be permanently secure and he would be given a pay-rise. And a company car. And one of those cool tiny handguns that Dimitri was playing with in the field, the other day. It would all work out well.

Twenty minutes later, however, when the secrets of the universe had still not been revealed to him and the gnawing in his stomach had grown too painful to ignore, Calum gave upon the idea of solving the problem before lunch. Standing up from his station, he logged off the system, grabbed his coat and set off to find himself something to eat from one of the little overpriced cafes dotted around Westminster.

Winding a scarf around his neck, he headed downstairs, passing through security, and stepped out onto a street whipped by rain; dotted with businessmen and government sorts, all dressed dark with umbrellas and collars pulled around their faces. He must have been the only one for miles with his skin on show, he thought, looking around himself – and with jolly good reason. The rain that was falling was somewhere between water and ice, too soft to be sleet but too hard just to be raindrops. As they splattered his cheeks, the temperature of Calum's skin dropped away almost instantly.

He should have brought an umbrella, he thought, dully. Still, it would take as long to go back up and fetch one, now, as it would to run to the cafe and back. Steeling himself for full immersion, then, he stepped out into the street and wound his way on, through the wet.

The journey went as it usually did. Dodging a speeding taxi or two, Calum found himself across the road and down the main thoroughfare to Westminster. Raising a hand in thanks to a car with diplomatic plates, which halted to allow him past, he skipped up onto the opposite pavement and jogged away down one of the perpendicular side roads. Past one tall building and then another, he curved right under the shadow of a tall glass-fronted bank and found himself standing on front of a warm-looking cafe, situated in its courtyard; a large chain, with pleasing levels of anonymity. Slicking water from his head, Calum stumbled inside.

The other occupants of the small coffee shop did not look up as he entered, nor look at him as he made his way to the counter and waited in line, dripping loudly on the tiled floor. Such was the way in their capital city, Calum had learned, during the five years that he had lived here. Here, nobody looked at each other in the street. Nobody wished anyone good morning or, god forbid, thanked anyone for holding the door. No one made eye contact on the tube and nobody ever asked for directions. It was as if the entire population had signed some covert agreement of apathy. You would have to run along the street naked, on fire and playing the trombone, to be deserving of a second look. It was no surprise that they found it difficult to track down witnesses to murder and terrorism.

Ordering one of the menus more luxurious 'festive special' coffees, a sandwich, a muffin and a cake, Calum retired to the far wall to wait.

A few minutes passed.

He played on his phone.

He was just beginning to consider going over and asking what was taking so long when a young woman trotted up to his side and offered out a bag with the food inside it.

"Sorry for the wait, sir," she blustered, looking slightly out of breath.

She was a pretty thing. Young, definitely no more than twenty five, and slender with – from what Calum could see of them – a well-toned body. A little part of him wondered what she would say, if he made some clever quip about asking her for coffee sometime, but he resisted. His interest in the opposite sex was one of his less admirable qualities and one he would have to tame, if he wanted to succeed in their line of work. It was easier to keep your wits about you with your trousers on, after all.

"Not a problem," he assured her, instead, giving a little smile and taking his order. "You look very busy."

She gave the obligatory reply to the positive and scurried back off

Calum watched her go, feeling oddly nostalgic. A few years ago, he would – whatever logic said – have asked her for coffee. A few years ago, his silver tongue would have made up for what he lacked in good looks and he would have asked her to dinner at their coffee date. Maybe he would lead her back to her house after dinner. Maybe he would have pressed her up against a wall somewhere and lost himself inside her. Thirty seven now, though, he reminded himself. He was thirty seven and he had finished with that part of his life. He had done short term relationships, long term relationships. In the last ten years, he had been married, divorced, trailed through a succession of one-night stands and now, he was going to concentrate on his career. It was the only thing that ever seemed to give back.

Taking a sip of overly-indulgent, toffee-nut coffee, he gave the young woman one last look and headed back out into the cold.

.

By the time he arrived back on the Grid, he had eaten half of the muffin and dropped more than half of the coffee down the front of his coat in an effort to sidestep a mad cyclist, haring along Horseferrey Road. Cold and wet, his mood was only very slightly improved on what it had been when he had left the building, some twenty minutes earlier. Stepping wetly over to his seat, he set down the bag of food and stood for a moment, wondering if anyone would mind all that terribly if he just took all of his clothes off while they dried. What was a bit of nudity among friends, after all?

At that moment, however, Ruth came bounding over, bearing a thick armful of files. Whatever disaster she, Tariq and Harry had been averting earlier, it was clearly taken care of. Wondering what horrible task they were to deal with now, Calum watched as she approached and set down her many files, with a slap, on his desk. As she realised how wet he was, the analyst's expression shifted from concentrated professionalism to one of mild worry.

"You look like a drowned rat," she stated, in her characteristically blunt fashion.

"It's raining," he explained, feeling the water squish between his toes, inside of his shoes, as he said it.

"Evidently." Ruth's brow knitted a little tighter. "Don't you own an umbrella?"

"I thought I might be able to run really fast and dodge between the raindrops."

A glimmer of amusement lit in his colleague's eyes, but she hid it quickly, looking down and tapped the front of the top file.

"These are personnel files for Bethan Shayne's team, in North Africa. I need you to give them a thorough look-through. I'll join you later, after I finish de-briefing."

Calum felt a surge of admiration. "How the bloody hell did you get those?"

Ruth took a moment to look slightly pleased with herself.

"Tenacity." She tapped the file again then flipped it open. "And more than a few favours called in to the right people. Don't get too excited though," she warned him, "they don't say a damned thing about what they were working on, out there. From what I gather, they are old files, at least two years out of date – filed before the SIS centralised their online storage system and decided that updating hard copies was obsolete. Tariq and I won't be able to get our hands on the updated, digital versions for a while. If at all."

"Worth a look, though," Calum pointed out. "We can see if anyone has any strange connections with Five."

"Indeed," Ruth nodded, "but tread lightly. We don't know what any of this means, yet, or who is involved. Keep it to yourself and don't run anything out-with the internal network."

"Because we need it to look like we think Shayne is mental and this is all a delusional blow-up, just in case someone's watching?" Calum checked.

"Precisely."

There was a gap in conversation while Calum unloaded his sandwich from the bag and picked out the cucumber.

"You know, Erin and Dimitri checked out her house yesterday," his colleague spoke again, eventually. Her tone had changed from the one she had used, just moments before. The professional curtness was gone. This tone, Calum recognised, was the one she used to broad sensitive subject matters. She was looking down at the table as she spoke, her expression pensive. Calum watched her carefully as she continued. "They said it was like a safehouse. No personal details, anywhere, nothing other than a few pieces of kit and a very expensive security system." The look in her eyes was melancholy. It wasn't until her next words that Calum quite knew why, though. "I suppose that's the way most of us end up, in the end, isn't it?"

Ah. The inevitable moment when they doubted, just for a minute or two, what the point of it all was. It struck at least once or twice a week and, for a few minutes, it was debilitating.

Setting down his sandwich, the young officer leant forwards in his chair. He had never been much good at comforting colleagues, or women, for that matter. He always said the wrong thing at the wrong time and tended to make things worse rather than better. But he liked Ruth. She was sweet and kind and clever. He liked her as a person and liked her as a colleague. He thought that maybe, in a couple of months, they might even grow to be friends – God knows he needed as many friends as he could get, in this business. Ruth already had friends here, of course, in the form of Tariq, Dimitri and Harry, but Calum had spotted a niche which nobody had filled yet. None of the others were the sort of friends she could openly talk to. Dimitri was just not close enough, Tariq was too young, and Harry... well, Calum doubted that Ruth was capable of talking to Harry about anything remotely resembling emotional. Things between them looked far too fraught for that.

He would be the one she could talk to then, he told himself. He would be that friend.

"Not all of us," he told her.

"Sometimes it feels that way," Ruth voiced softly, in reply.

"Yeah, I totally get that," Calum pressed, "but you have to look at it statistically. For every officer who loses it, there are ten more who make it work – who manage to balance it all up in the end." He shook his head at her earlier remark. "I don't think we're fated to end up like Bethan Shayne. Not by a long shot."

Ruth looked up, eyes very serious and very blue and Calum realised, with a start, that – as world-weary as she looked sometimes – she was not much older than him. A couple of years, perhaps. Forty-odd. Just very briefly, he wondered what could have panned out for them if they had met ten years ago and Harry wasn't in the picture. The thought quickly trickled away into nothingness. Things were as they were. And, in their business, what-might-have-been meant less than in most.

"Hey, did you know Ryan Davies?" he asked, on a sudden whim – knowing that she had worked for GCHQ and her path would have crossed, at some point, with that of the MI5 communications liaison.

Ruth nodded.

"I heard he went quite spectacularly," she added.

True, thought Calum, with a nod. Ryan Davies had had a very public breakdown, ending in a showdown on a bridge, where he shot himself. It was one of the personnel stories MI5 certainly did not use during recruiting drives. Calum had a point to make, however, so he pressed on.

"I guess he did," he admitted. "Did you know Frances Malloy?"

Ruth frowned slightly and shook her head. "No."

"Edward Phillips?"

Another shake of her head.

"Rory Benson? Jonathon Tate?"

"No. Who are they?"

"The staff on Ryan Davies' technical team when I worked with them, in 2008."

Understanding glimmered, in Ruth's eyes.

"Some of them are still with the service," Calum continued. "Some have left, moved on to other jobs, had kids, got married. Edward Phillips even wrote a book, under a different name. I heard it made the bestsellers list."

"Not all blown up and broken down..." Ruth voiced, nodding a little wryly. "I see your point."

"There are thousands of us in this business," Calum summed up. "The names you remember are the ones which have painful, horrible stories associated with them. But those names, those stories, aren't the norm. If they were, then we would be sitting here discussing why there was good in the world, rather than why there was evil."

Ruth appraised him for a moment and then gave a little smile.

"You know, you're rather good at pep talks," she noted. "You should consider a future in management."

A little wave of relief passed through Calum's gut as he smiled, in response. He had hoped it wouldn't come off trite. She was, after all, his senior – in more than years. Including her time at GCQH, she had been in active service for two years longer than he. Her time in Counterterrorism had made her witness to more horror than he could imagine. She had died for this country. She had lost her life, her name, a family and her freedom, at various points. She was one of the names which was associated with one of the painful stories, Calum thought, internally. But that didn't mean it had to be remembered as such. She still had time. She wasn't broken and burnt-out yet. There was still a flicker of excitement in her eyes, over the work. She was still capable of kindness and love, towards her colleagues.

Pulling the pile of files towards himself, Calum flicked through them.

"I suppose I should get started on these bad boys..."

"Feel free to finish your lunch first," Ruth commented, eyeing the bag of food he had returned with a tad hungrily. "Harry's going to poach you in about an hour to run an errand out to Croydon. You won't have a chance to sit down for a while."

Caught in a sudden spurt of festive spirit, (and pleased to hear that he was going to get a chance to spend just a little part of his day not chained to his desk), Calum motioned at the bag from the coffee shop, still sitting on the end of his desk.

"Oh, I'm almost done. There's some gingerbread cake left over, if you fancy it," he added. "I've already had the muffin, the cookie and the sandwich. Cake right now sounds like a bit of a bad idea."

The analyst looked interested, but politely refused until Calum insisted again.

"Go ahead,"

"No, really, I couldn't. It's your lunch."

"It'll go straight to my waist, if you don't." Besides, Calum thought, he wanted to build a bridge here and men weren't the only ones with a path to their hearts from their stomachs. That trick worked on over-worked and underfed analysts, too. "Go on," he told her, with a nod towards the bag. "Save me from myself."

With a small smile, Ruth took the bag and thanked him, beginning to dig around inside as Calum turned his attention downwards, towards the files in front of him.

The six men and women, who had worked for Shayne in Algiers. Somewhere in here would be the detail they were missing. One of them would reveal whether they actually were traitors, working for a local terrorist, or whether Shayne was right and it had all been a cover-up by Six, to hide a rogue element they had placed inside Five. This was where he would find his answers, he told himself, suddenly feeling a little bit more optimistic about the rest of the day. He always felt more optimistic with new information. There was something exciting and hopeful about having a new lead to follow – even if it was one as tenuous as six names and the scan detail that Six kept on their mid-security network storage.

"Calum?" Ruth's voice shattered his thoughts, the tone of worry in it catching him mid-way through turning a page.

He looked hurriedly up.

"What?"

She was holding the bag with the cake in it in one hand. In the other, she was holding a small pink USB stick and wearing a frown.

"What is this?"

Now, it was his turn to frown.

"It's not mine," he shrugged. "Someone must have left it on my desk. Where did you find it?"

She shook her head. "It wasn't on the desk. It was in the bag from the coffee shop."

Calum's stomach dropped away a little, inside of him.

.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6 – Point of Contact_

_._

_Friday 9th December, 2011_

.

The team gathered in Harry's office before shutting the blind firmly down across the window. Harry himself remained behind his desk, hands firmly planted on the surface on front of him, the object of their consternation lying between them.

A small, pink USB stick. It looked like nothing but it had appeared, unexplained, in Calum's lunch, this afternoon, and it was the exact same make and model as the drive that Shayne had used to contact the Home Secretary, several days ago. This was a communiqué, Harry thought, staring down at it nervously. This was terms or the location for a meet. He knew Shayne. This was how she worked. Every note to them would be in the same form as the last, to ensure that nobody would fake contact, as her. Nobody but the Home Secretary, Harry, and Erin knew the details of the exact make and model. Nobody could fake this. This had to be Shayne.

Across from him, Ruth was watching with her arms folded across her stomach, nervous tension writ in the lines across her forehead. He would rather be anywhere else in the world with her, Harry thought, than here in this dark moment, which they seemed doomed to re-live over and over again; this edge-of-disaster moment. He would rather be under any other circumstances than these, with her looking at him like she was, now. He hated that he was a constant source of bad news to the woman who he loved. It was unfathomable, he often thought, that she still loved him back, after all they had been through – all he had put her through.

Tearing his eyes away from his favourite analyst and back onto the man loitering behind her left shoulder, he commenced with his questioning.

"When was this found?" he asked, with weariness in his voice. Today was going to be a long one. Already, he had been pushed to breaking point and back with a combination of a bomb threat on the Tube and some personal business, which had turned out to be rather more serious than he had anticipated. A communiqué from Shayne meant that there was more trouble brewing on the horizon.

"Just five minutes ago," Ruth answered, quietly, calmly – the voice of reason amidst Harry's tumultuous thoughts. "I noticed this at the bottom of the bag Calum brought his lunch back in, wrapped inside a napkin."

"This made it through security?"

"Its a USB stick, Harry," Ruth told him, softly. "Our security systems are only supposed to pick up on weapons and explosives."

Turning his eyes back on the younger officer, Harry frowned slightly.

"And our theory is someone slipped the stick into your order sometime between it being put together by the coffee shop staff and being handed over to you?"

"Yes," Calum nodded, then added, "I honestly didn't notice a drop, though. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. They must have been professionals." He sounded utterly ashamed.

Harry regarded him carefully. The younger officer had been noticeably nervous, these past few days, especially around him. Harry wasn't entirely sure why. He did not think he had given the younger man any cause to feel slighted, or disliked. Certainly, he had no problem with the work Calum had been doing – not by any stretch of the imagination. The younger officer's output was far above many of his colleagues', especially considering that Harry had not assigned him to any particular department. He did part-time field work, part-time analysis, part-time technical work with Tariq, yet he still somehow managed to get it all finished to the standard which Harry had come to expect of experienced officers.

Harry looked back down at the small pink USB.

"You use this coffee shop frequently?" he asked, thinking hard.

"Yes. Every other day, or so."

That would make it easier for Shayne to pin-point him, to design a way to get a message to him.

"Did anyone approach you or talk to you, while you were in line, or waiting for your order?" he asked.

Calum frowned, shifting uneasily. Over by the door, Dimitri and Erin exchanged a pitying look. Everyone here understood that it was hardly Calum's fault that Shayne had managed to make a drop on him. Still, as embarrassing as it was for an officer of Calum's level of experience to be caught out, Harry had to question him about it. There could be some little detail that he hadn't realised was important. There could be something here which could lead them to Shayne.

"I don't remember," Calum answered, eventually. "I don't think so."

"Think carefully."

A frown, from Calum.

"No. I ordered then I messed about on my phone for a while, while I waited. They were busy, so it took a while."

"Can you manage a physical description of the other people in line with you?" Harry asked.

Over by the door, the situation finally became too much for Erin.

"Harry, it's a Starbucks in central London," she said, shaking her head. "They have thousands of people coming through each day. Most of them work around here and will be vaguely familiar, to Calum, if he goes their regularly. The chances of us getting a description match are negligible."

"Okay, Harry pressed, turning back to Calum. "So we forget the customers. What about the staff? You go in every other day, correct?"

The younger officer nodded.

"So were any of the staff unfamiliar? New?"

"I don't know," Calum frowned, then his eyes sparked, slightly, seeming to remember something. "The woman who brought my order over, maybe... I don't think I've ever seen her before. And," he gave just a tiny pause, glancing up at Harry guiltily, "I think I'd remember meeting her."

Harry bit back a comment about how stupid it was, to lose your wits over a pretty face. He was hardly blameless, on that matter, he reminded himself – and certainly he had not been, twenty years ago, when he was Calum's age. Bethan Shayne liked to use pretty young things, to distract her targets. It was one of her trademarks. She was an old-school spy, Harry thought, with a sigh. He should have warned the others about that. Well, better late than never.

"If you give us a description, we'll start with her and try to get a trace. Tariq," he turned to the youngest officer, "do we have an angle on the coffee shop from the bank cameras, across the way?" Tariq nodded, allowing Harry a surge of relief. Finally, some luck. "Good," he nodded. "Pull footage of all staff and customers coming and leaving the building around the time that Calum entered. We find this girl and we try to trace her back to her origin. We treat this as a lead. We use it. Now," he turned back to the main body of his staff, all watching him raptly. "As for what is actually on the stick, we have a few options."

Everyone shifted, glancing at each other.

What was actually on the stick; a simple word document, with a simple message. An address, delivered with the supposed intention of a meeting or a drop – (Harry suspected the former). The possibility of it being more, however, hung in the back of all of their minds. It could be an ambush, a booby-trap, something else terrible that Harry hadn't figured out, yet...

"We need to go in," Erin said, after a few moments of silence. "And ourselves. We can't risk using CO19 because of the paperwork and the risk of word getting out to other departments."

"We could borrow A Section's Tactical Assault team," Dimitri suggested, helpfully. "They can be under the impression that we're looking for an Al-Qaeda safehouse."

Harry nodded, slowly.

It was a good plan. And Neil, from A Section owed him a favour. He would have no problem getting them on short notice.

"They can hold a perimeter around the location, but I would prefer if we went in ourselves," he told the team. "I'd like to involve as few external personnel as possible. Tariq, I believe you've done a stint with bomb disposal?"

"Yes, sir," the young man nodded.

"Good. Then I'll have you with us."

"Is that safe?" Ruth asked, a little quickly. "He's not field trained. And none of you, except Dimitri, have any assault training. What if this is an ambush? Wouldn't it be better to have Tactical take the building?"

Harry's eyes slipped over to her.

Was she asking because of him, he wondered? He had to hope so. He had to hope that they were not so estranged that she did not worry about him, out in the field. He worried about her – most places and most days.

"They'll be sixty seconds out, should we need assistance," he assured his worried analyst, careful not to let her see how much her concern had touched him. It didn't do to let too much show. He had learned that well, over the years. Letting too much show only seemed to scare her away and make the others uncomfortable, (inevitably landing him in the doghouse). Just stay back, he reminded himself, you know the drill. Self-control. Self-denial. "Besides," he added, calmly, "we will have thermal and electrical scans of the place, before we go in, so we will know what we're dealing with." Looking over at Erin and Dimitri, he received confirmation that his plan was, indeed, a viable one. They were both nodding, slightly. "You two and Tariq will need to be armed and wearing full protective gear," he told them. "I also want communications triple checked and GPS trackers on everyone. Ruth," he turned back to her, meeting the blue of her eyes, "you'll be running things from the Grid, with Calum on Comms. Make sure everyone holds an operational distance of sixty seconds, awaiting my call." He looked around all of them again. "Any questions?"

Erin, Calum and Dimitri shook their heads.

Tariq looked nervous.

Ruth shifted.

"What if Shayne's there and its a meet?" she asked. "She'll bolt if the lot of you turn up."

"It's not a meet," Harry shook his head.

"How do you know?"

"She would have contacted me directly," Harry explained. "It's just how she works."

There was a silence, for a long moment, then Calum spoke up, softly.

"Incidentally, why _did_ she choose me, as a point of contact?" He sounded guilty, something Harry felt he should probably rectify. It wasn't the man's fault, after all, that Shayne had chosen him. He was simply the logical messenger boy. And Shayne was always logical.

"She knew I wouldn't trust you, or Erin, like the other members of my team," he answered, after a long pause. "She knew I would have vetted you more stringently than the others and, therefore, you were less likely to have been linked to the mole. You were the safest option."

Calum looked somewhere between relieved and offended but, after a swallow and a nod, the emotion quickly drained away. Neutral face back in place. Self-denial, thought Harry wryly, self-control. The younger man was getting used to this game. One day, maybe, he would be as good as Harry himself was.

Looking around at his team, the Section Head gave a short sigh.

One day, all of them would be as good and as empty as he was.

"Okay," he told them, wearily. "Let's get people on the ground."

.

By the time they arrived at the location specified in Shayne's USB message, night had fallen around them. On Harry's instruction, the assembled tactical team were positioned around the building, holed up in a small closed cafe, across the street, and the top floor of an unrented flat, two houses down. Eight men armed with automatic weaponry. That should be enough, Harry reassured himself, as he, Erin, Dimitri and Tariq climbed the front steps to the neat white townhouse.

It was quite a pretty place, he thought, standing before it. Tall and slender, with wide floor-length windows, anything could be lurking inside. From the front steps, however, it looked a perfectly unassuming house on a perfectly unassuming street. What had Bethan Shayne left inside of here, he wondered? They had done checks on it before arriving, this morning. Ruth had traced the house's ownership through three property dealers to a married couple, who had bought it in the July of two years ago. Neither of the names ran up any alarms on their systems. Neither did they ring up any other details, however. Harry expected they were false. At the very least, this was a safehouse, belonging to Shayne. At the worst, they could be stumbling into one of Six's black ops retreats. And god knew how they were protected.

Standing on the front step, Harry wondered what was waiting for them inside. A booby trap? An ambush? Thermal scans had shown that there was nobody inside. Their electrical scans had shown no unusual activity. The house had wireless internet installed, was up to date on its gas and electric bills, but there was no undue expenditure of energy that could indicate advanced security. By all appearances, the only protection there against intrusion was a high-end civilian alarm system, the box of which was bolted above the front door, small red light blinking unobtrusively.

"Ready?" Erin asked, at Harry's side.

They were all dressed in civilian clothing but three men and a woman – of varying age and ethnicity – standing on the doorstop together, in the dusk, was always going to look suspicious to the neighbours. Harry wasn't ready to head inside, but they really did need to get off the street. It wouldn't do for someone to call the police on them, after all they had been through to keep their coming here secret.

"Ready. Shall we?"

His three colleagues nodded. Over comms, Ruth confirmed that tactical were holding their position and they had a sixty second lapse, after calling them in, and told them to be careful. On Harry's nod, Tariq reached over and pressed the four digit code that Shayne had left for them on the USB stick, along with the address, into the security pad on the right-hand side of the front door. 4-8-7-1. For a moment, all of them held their collective breath, then the little red light blinked green and a loud click sounded. The door was open.

Reaching forwards, Harry turned the handle and pushed it in, causing streetlight to flood the dark corridor. Inside, all was quiet. The team stood, half-braced for something to happen – a big bang, perhaps, or gunfire from inside – taking in its contents. From where they were standing, they could see a chest of drawers, placed beneath a mirror against one wall. Stairs leant against the other side, disappearing up into the darkness of the second floor. A couple of photo frames marked the walls. Three or four pairs of shoes were placed neatly, to one side of the door. Apart from that, there was nothing. No movement.

Harry looked to Erin.

"Inside."

She nodded to the others, following his lead as he headed through, holding his breath slightly against the expectation still hanging in the air. He had known Shayne, once, and he still could not think of her as someone who would intentionally injure fellow officers. Still, he had seen enough evidence of officers losing it over the years to be wary. And she had shot her bloody CO after all. If you were capable of shooting the SIS Chief, the head of your Service, then blowing an old friend and his people to smithereens wasn't an entirely unlikely concept. As they wandered through, however, leaving the door ajar behind them, no grenades went off. No tripwires snapped. Nothing. The house slumbered peacefully around them.

Following the corridor down to the end, Harry found a grandfather clock ticking steadily, and watched it for a moment until Erin and Dimitri joined him.

"So far no casualties," the ex-SBS man told him quietly.

"So far." Harry looked at the two doors opposite them. One undoubtedly led to the front room of the house, the other to the kitchen. There was another behind him, presumably to a small downstairs bathroom. All were closed. "You two head upstairs and spread out. Check the place through. Touch nothing." He turned to Tariq. "You're with me."

The young man looked momentarily terrified, then forced his face into a more neutral expression and nodded.

Was the techie disappointed that he had not been assigned Erin or Dimitri, to watch his back, Harry wondered? Had he really lost all edge in the field? The thought gave him slight cause for concern. He knew he was getting on a bit. He felt old, most every morning. Still, it would be nice to think that his people still had some degree of confidence in his abilities. What young officer Masood said next, however, mollified his ego very slightly – indicating that, perhaps, he had misunderstood the reason for the young man's hesitance.

"So do you go first or do I?" Looking down, Harry realised that the gun in his hand was held slightly too tightly, the safety still on. The young man wasn't worried about his abilities, he realised, with a start. He was worried about his own. Worried that he wasn't going to do this right. He was only a new officer, Harry realised, watching him. Despite having passed all of his firearm qualifications and doing a stint with bomb disposal, he was about as new to the field as they came.

Feeling a sudden protective urge towards the younger man, he nodded to the door on front of them.

"We'll check the living room first and work our way to the back of the house. We know the bathroom is empty because tactical managed to get eyes on through the open window. You head through first," he explained, waiting until Erin and Dimitri had headed upstairs and were out of earshot before reaching over and flicking the safety to 'off' on Tariq's gun, repositioning his hand around the grip. "I've got your back. Just level this at anything that moves and shout like hell." Stepping back, he gave the young officer what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "That usually does the trick."

"Okay," Tariq nodded.

Harry withdrew his own weapon and lay it against his side, using his free hand to open the door opposite them. It swung in without incident, to no resounding bangs or crashes. Swallowing hard, Tariq took the lead, heading through.

Guns levelled, they scanned the living room, eager to ascertain that there was nothing lurking behind the couches, or the flat screen television. And, just as Harry had expected, they found nothing. Nothing was lurking behind the couches, or the flat screen television. The living room was just a living room, a simple homely living room at that; nicely decorated, well cared for and lived in by what looked like a couple – or, at least, a woman with a male friend who spent a lot of time here. A variety of books and items lay around, a man's watch, a woman's cardigan and a pair of glasses. This was someone's home, Harry thought, stepping carefully back out of the room again and following Tariq back down to the kitchen door. Why Shayne had brought him here, he could not begin to fathom.

As they entered the kitchen, Harry and Tariq found no more evidence of weaponry, but they were confronted with the source of the small blip of heat on their thermal scans. As they stepped onto the tiled floor, their footsteps were joined by a loud skittering of claws and a small dog appeared before them, ears pricked expectantly. From what little Harry knew about dogs, it did not look like one bent on attacking, not that it could do much damage if it did. It was too small. Nevertheless, he held back slightly. Tariq had no such hesitations. Lowering his gun, he stepped forwards and bent down, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff.

"Hey there, buddy," he coaxed.

Harry watched, uneasily.

"What is it?" he asked his officer.

"A beagle, I think..."

"I meant," Harry rephrased, "does it belong here? Is it from this house or did she leave it for us?"

"Why would she leave us a dog?"

"I don't know," Harry motioned towards the animal, "just check the tag."

Tariq scuffled around on the floor. Sensing a game afoot, the dog scampered around him, jumping up and licking his ears as he attempted to read the tag.

"It says..." a frown and then Tariq looked quickly back up at Harry. "I think he's for us."

Harry frowned. "What does it say?"

Tariq stood up and walked back over, bringing the wriggling dog with him. It licked his cheeks gleefully as he removed the collar and deposited the rolled leather into Harry's hands. Harry turned the brass tag over. In small lettering, in the middle of the circle, was printed his name in block capitals and a telephone number.

He looked over at Tariq.

"One more clue..."

"Could be for contact?"

Harry shook his head. "No, the number listed here is just the landline for the house." He turned the tag over. Apart from the perfunctory message, of a vet's number and the fact that the dog was microchipped, that was all. Had Shayne simply picked the house because the family living here had a dog called Harry? Was she just playing with them? What were they supposed to find here?

His question was answered by Dimitri stomping back down the stairs and down the corridor towards them.

"Harry – you'd better come see this!" the young man called, sticking his head around the doorframe.

Harry and Tariq looked up, Tariq still gripping the dog tightly in his arms.

Dimitri nodded towards the upstairs.

"I think we've found what Shayne wanted us to see."

.

Upstairs, they found two rooms and a bathroom, the largest of the rooms converted from what was obviously once a bedroom into a full-scale, four-walled diagram of every bit of information Bethan Shayne had managed to put together on their mole, within the Service. As soon as Harry's eyes fell upon it, he wondered how he ever could have doubted her sanity. Surely, he thought, this was the workings of a deranged mind. surely, Shayne was a mad woman.

The walls were covered with scraps of paper; times and dates, operation names and details, contact names, numbers, meeting points – presumably, everything connected to Shayne's mole, within Five. There were CCTV print-outs, shadowy figures that even the most advanced facial recognition could not hope to run. There were maps circled, the names and details of terrorist groups with whom he had presumably had contact. There were details on who he had sold information to, what he had got for it, details Shayne must have gleaned from the criminal underworld. If they were real that was, Harry cautioned himself.

He wanted, immediately, to dismiss it as the ravings of a burnt-out officer. He wanted to show the others from the room and have Tactical come in and rip the place apart, destroy all evidence that one of theirs had ever lived here – as he was now sure Shayne had lived her, now, (why build your shrine in someone else's temple, after all?) but he held back. Stepping closer, he peered at one small part of the diagram, assimilating the information there, carefully working outwards, giving it a chance to soak in.

And, to his astonishment, it began to take shape. It began to make sense.

The numbers, dates and names on the walls – Harry realised, with a start – were arranged in chronological order. All related details were connected with string and black marker lines to other dates, numbers and names. The photos were all carefully marked and annotated. The snippets of SIS and MI5 incident reports, which he could see scattered amongst the other paper taped to the walls, were numbered and referenced. Focussing on one small point of the enormous nest of information and working his way out, Harry was able to follow the progression of Bethan Shayne's thoughts. And they were logical. They were neat and precise and, much to his surprise, they made sense. This was not a woman losing her grip on reality, he thought, taking a step back again and admiring the three covered walls as a whole. This was obsession, admittedly, but not madness.

Tariq, stepping into the room behind him, gave a low whistle.

"Holy shit."

Harry nodded, internally sharing the sentiment.

"Looks like we've got what we need to find this bastard," Erin spoke, quietly.

"With this and the details we have on our personnel, through the internal network, we'll have him in a couple of days," Dimitri muttered.

Harry looked over at his team, cautioning their enthusiasm.

"We don't know what it means yet," he reminded them, gently. "Even if it is real data, it could lead nowhere."

They nodded.

Tariq stroked the beagle, who was now reclining happily in his arms.

"What do you want us to do, Sir?" Dimitri asked.

Harry gave a long sigh, looking once more over the walls of the room.

"I need a thorough sweep of the house," he eventually answered, turning to Erin. "Erin and Dimitri, you get rid of Tactical. Tell them it was a false lead and we found nothing here. Tariq, I want scans of the whole building. Make sure we're not bugged. I also want audio and visual on the place and photographs of the scene, as we have it. We're going to need photocopies of the documents on this wall, and I need our own security system up and running on every window, door and attic space this place has to offer. We need to be one hundred percent documented and secured, if anything we find here is going to be admissible as evidence."

The young man looked nervous.

"Uh, Harry, I might need a hand, getting all of that done before next Tuesday."

Harry nodded. Of course he would.

"I'll get Calum over to help and I'll have Ruth call you, about sorting out the data." He sighed. "We'll need an analyst to look over all of this anyway and she'll probably want to brief you on how she wants the documents marked, to come in."

"Actually-," a voice over comms sounded, causing Harry a little start.

Ruth had not spoken since the commencing of their assault on the place, save to give Erin updates on the continued absence of anything on Tactical's thermal scans. She rarely talked, when they were in the field, unless it was absolutely necessary. Calum was the one running comms, after all. She was just there, in the background, keeping the operation running – keeping his department running, Harry thought, with an uncomfortable wave of fondness – saving the world, in her own, quiet way.

"-If its all the same to you, I would rather nobody touched the walls," the analyst's soft, disembodied voice continued, in their earpieces. "Take photographs of everything but leave it intact. Shayne put it together like this for a reason. There might be more meaning to the placement than we know, right now, and even if we have the photos of it assembled, it would take a hellish long time to re-paste together, if there is. Best to leave it until we know what we're dealing with," she finished, decisively, then added, (slightly less decisively), "I'd like to come over and have a look at it all, in person, if that's okay with you, Harry."

Deference, to his rank.

Harry swallowed slightly.

He felt like telling her that, as the senior analyst on his team, she had every right to come and see their data. He felt like telling her that she had every right to voice her opinions, on how said data was handled and collected, at any time or place. He felt like saying that he trusted her implicitly and that she was more brilliant and intelligent than everyone else on his team combined. It sounded a little too much like brownnosing, however, and he was fearful of how the rest of the team might react to such an emasculating show of grovelling, so he reigned himself in. He gave a soft 'of course', to the affirmative, instead.

"Good," Ruth breathed, on the other end of the line, sounding relieved and slightly pleased. "I'll get everything set up here and then head over, with Calum."

Harry nodded, mouthing "good," softly back to her.

Beautiful, wonderful, clever Ruth.

A moment passed in silence, then Harry cleared his throat and spoke again, knowing that if he did not then the sudden aching need inside of him would begin to show on his face and he would lose all credibility in being able to control himself.

"I've got to go and brief the Home Secretary on that bomb threat we cleared up, this morning," he forced out, repeating his inner mantra of self-control and self-denial. "I'll catch up with you when I'm done." Turning to look at his Section Chief, he found her watching him with neutral eyes – the sort of neutral which made Harry wonder whether she was more aware than she let on, of his inner turmoil. "Erin," he told her, suddenly glad of the professional distance she kept, (glad that she would never say, even if she did know how much Ruth was tearing him apart,) "you've got point on this. I'd like a report at twenty-one hundred. I should be back on the Grid after that and we can ascertain whether or not the intelligence can keep until morning."

He looked around the room at the three spooks gathered there, Erin with her serious Section Chief face in place, Dimitri still toting a handgun like action-man, Tariq with his tech-bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, a gormless look on his face and a doleful-looking beagle in his arms.

"And will someone drop the dog off at the local shelter," Harry added, remembering its name tag, suddenly and feeling a rush of ingratitude towards Shayne. "The last thing this investigation needs is the lot of us catching fleas."

.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7 – Lead_

_._

_Saturday 10__th__ December, 2011_

.

The intelligence, it seemed, could keep until morning. By the time they had gone through Shayne's house from top to bottom, photographed and documented everything, installed a state of the art security system and got surveillance up and running, it was half past one in the morning and everyone was more than ready just to head back home and drop into bed. So, with Harry's grudging permission, that was what they did.

Ruth was the last off the Grid and the first there again, the next day. She stumbled in, through the glass doors, holding an inordinate number of things under her weary hands. A file or two she had taken home to have a look over, last night, her bag, two hats that she had found in her bag, a scarf which she had had to remove from her lower face, before security would let her in the side door, her phone, and a cup of steaming coffee which she had caved and bought from one of the small stalls along the embankment on the way in. It was overpriced and she could just as well get the stuff for free in here but Grid coffee tasted as good as it sounded and she really needed a good caffeine hit this morning. This morning, her eyes weren't quite opposite the holes. She was still half asleep, for example, as Harry stepped in front of her, equally as tired and preoccupied, almost knocking everything she was holding from her outstretched hands.

"Shit!" Ruth jumped backwards, adrenaline shooting through her and somehow managing to enable her to stay upright, despite a slip on the wet floor and an almost over-balancing with all of her belongings. Harry startled too, then gathered himself and gave her an apologetic look.

"Sorry,"

"God, Harry, you should watch where you're walking," she scolded, softly, shifting the files under her arm.

Harry looked anxiously over at her.

"Everything okay?" Ruth asked him, frowning as she realised that anxiety was hardly his normal response to her chiding and that something else must be afoot. "New lead?"

"No," he shook his head, then rubbed his forehead with one large palm. "It's fine, Ruth, I'm just on my way out to see my solicitor."

"Why?" she asked, suddenly nervous. "What have you done?"

A tiny flicker of fondness warmed into life, in his eyes. "Nothing." They watched each other for a long moment. "Besides, the Service has their own people for covering my professional lapses in judgement. My lucky solicitor only has to handle private matters." He regarded her carefully for a second, Ruth getting the impression that he was deciding how much of a secret to hold back. Eventually, seemingly deciding that it was best to keep the whole thing to himself, he sighed and pushed the conversation back to work. "So, how is Shayne's Venn diagram of treason looking?"

Feeling slightly disappointed he had held back from her and wondering if that was what they were fated to be, Ruth turned her attention downward, to the files in her hands.

"It's more of a mind map than a Venn diagram," she corrected, reflexively, "and I've not had a chance to look at them since last night, Harry. I was sleeping."

"Right, of course."

Ruth sighed to herself. Only Harry could forget that was what you were supposed to do with the eight hours or so, per day that they weren't at Thames House. Unless, of course, he hadn't left. Which was more than likely, considering his rumpled shirt and lack of tie.

"You've not been home, I take it?"

He shook his head. "I was just on my way out, a couple of hours ago, when I got a call and now I have to trek across town to deal with some personal things before a breakfast meeting." He paused, for a moment, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something again but, again, he held himself back. Giving a small noise in the back of his throat, he muttered, "I get the feeling its going to be a long day."

"When is it not?" Ruth muttered, looking down to try and hide her disappointment.

Were they ever going to reach a point where they could just say what they were thinking/feeling, she wondered. Were they ever going to be able to talk about their personal lives, or were they stuck in the professional forever? After Albany, Ruth had thought they were moving forwards. She had even considered the prospect of pushing forwards and asking him for a drink one night. In moments like these, however, she couldn't see any progress at all. They just kept drifting further away from one another.

She supposed she needed to try harder – needed to extend her hand a little. After all, she was at least partly to blame for the situation they now found themselves in. Every advance Harry had made, over the past couple of years, she had run away from. It had been almost half a decade since she had given him reason to believe she still saw any future in them at all. And she shouldn't feel miffed that he wasn't sharing his personal problems with her. She had given up any right to know about his personal life the morning she turned down his proposal.

"Well," she cleared her throat, watching him watch her across the way. "The roads are pretty treacherous. They've got grit down but the ice keeps melting and re-freezing. My bus nearly ended up in a gutter this morning."

"You should get a car."

"I have a car. But I live a street down from a bus route which can take me straight here and I prefer not to unnecessarily contribute to global warming."

"Ah, I see. Saving the world."

"Indeed."

They watched each other for a long moment, then Ruth nodded towards the Grid, indicating that it was time to get back to work, and Harry gave her a soft smile in goodbye. There was no need for a fuss, with their goodbyes, thought Ruth as they began to walk away from each other. They'd see each other again soon. They could resume their strange non-relationship, almost-moments soon. As he turned on his heel and began to walk away, Ruth's boss glanced back at her quickly, before walking out to the soft suction noise of the glass security doors. Ruth sighed and retreated to her desk.

The information from last night's extravaganza, at Bethan Shayne's house, was spread out on its surface. Dates, names, numbers, fragments of personnel files and incident reports, photographs of meetings; this was what they were going to use to catch this guy, she thought. From this information, they were going to form a profile of who their mole was and what he was capable of. And, from there, they would narrow down who within the service was capable of being their mole. And, from there, they would hopefully make some connection – either that or get lucky, thought Ruth, slightly bitterly. The timeline that Shayne was showing, here, went back more than five years. Five years inside the system gave a mole ample time to dig in and bury his tracks. Being a rogue agent within a security service was never going to be easy, however. Over the years, he would have left a trace of himself, here and there. There would be clues, if Ruth looked hard enough. They would find him.

And then she and Harry could rest.

Closing her eyes, momentarily, Ruth put aside all the complications of the reality of them and wondered what it would feel like to wake up in bed beside him after a good night's sleep. Did he ever sleep in, she wondered? Was he a morning person? Did he like to sleep close, or far apart? Left or right side of the bed. Any combination of these traits would be welcome, she thought, a little pathetically, parting her lids again as the security doors whooshed and Calum Reid stepped onto the Grid. At least they would be real, then, rather than just in her imagination. She thought she might be ready for real, however complicated, dangerous and flawed it might prove to be.

For now, however, she had to concentrate on work.

As Calum plodded over, then, heaving a yawn of gargantuan proportions, she pulled on her professional front and downed the last inch of her coffee in one gulp.

"Morning," she greeted him, with forced cheerfulness, setting down her cup and picking up a file. "Can I get your help with organising all of this, before Tariq comes in? I need all of the CCTV snaps and personnel photos in chronological order, as in when they were taken, so he can run them through facial recog software."

The younger officer rubbed his eyes and nodded, wearily.

"Good."

They settled down at her desk, sorting through copies of the photographs from Shayne's wall, discussing their plans to head back over there today, so that Ruth could continue her analysis of it. As they reached the bottom of the pile, Calum withdrew what looked like a candid shot of Shayne's team, all gathered around a desk wearing paper hats, presumably from the broken Christmas crackers on the table between them. They were wearing shorts and t-shirts and the sun outside the window of the building in the picture was high in the sky and orange like the sun never got, in the UK. This was them in the field, then, thought Ruth, reaching over and taking the photo from Calum's hand. Perhaps it had been taken as recently as last year

Her eyes swept the six faces, now just six names, which Vauxhall Cross had labelled as traitors. If it had been their team, she thought, and they had been set up as traitors, what would Harry not do to prove their innocence? If they had all been killed by a rogue operative, what lengths would he not go to make sure that mole went down?

"I suppose Shayne took the photo," Calum said, dragging her back to the present.

"Probably," Ruth answered, looking over the faces again. She could pick out four field officers and two technical analysts, but no Shayne. Yes, then, she thought to herself. Shayne would be the one taking the photo. It made sense. She probably kept herself at an arms' length from her people, just like Harry. The boss spook. Self-controlled. Self-denying. Shayne and Harry were cut from the same cloth – that was why this case had rattled him so.

Setting the photograph down on the top of the pile, Ruth hoped he was all right, wherever he was, meeting with his solicitor for whatever reason. She hoped that there was nothing too painful going on in his private life. He already had so very much to bear.

"Come on," she told Calum, "we have enough to get on with."

.

The morning passed in a haze of names and dates and numbers. Heading over to Shayne's house, at just past nine, Ruth, Tariq and Calum spent a couple of hours going over her timeline in detail, adding all the information they could pull from it to their database – arguing over what certain reference codes and numbers meant. Using their own internet router, in case the one Shayne had set up on-site was compromised, Ruth collated it all and uploaded it to their secure internal server.

The broke for lunch, heading down the road to a small cafe where they all sat beneath strings of gaudy Christmas decorations and shared a pizza, the boys treating Ruth to their collection of naughty limericks – before which she had not fully appreciated how many words in the English language which rhymed with 'farce' – then Tariq headed back to Thames House and Ruth and Calum descended back on Shayne's abode, to sift through what was left of the wall diagram.

It was a less comfortable place to work than the Grid, she thought, shuffling notes at her makeshift station – a combination of kitchen chair and a battered old writing desk, which they had dragged through from the next room. Still, she was very grateful that Shayne had decided to obsess in her empty bedroom rather than in the lower level of the house. The living room and kitchen were freezing. Every time it was Ruth's turn, to venture down there to make coffee, she had to throw on an extra jumper. At least, up here, she couldn't see her breath. The heat from the townhouses on either side kept it almost lukewarm. And at least she didn't have to keep getting up and down, she reminded herself, thanks to Calum's rather clever idea of stringing a pair of binoculars around her neck. From her position, at the centre of the room, she could see all that Shayne had collected and try and piece it all together.

So far, however, despite the huge expanses of information, she had only become more confused. This huge diagram, which at first had looked like it would answer all their questions, seemed only to be a synopsis of what had happened – an outline, of sorts. The photos and extracts of information had short numerical codes beside them, codes which looked, to Ruth, not dissimilar to the reference codes the SIS used, in incident reports. There should have been some sort of hard disk drive, or laptop, which they were supposed to refer to – something which had a directory of the original documents Shayne had used, to compile this mind-map. But Erin and Dimitri had checked the house thoroughly and there was no technology to be found anywhere. Ruth supposed Shayne could not risk the wrong people stumbling on this place and getting their hands on it. Still, she had expected her to have left them something.

The door behind her creaked and Calum appeared in it, bearing two steaming mugs of coffee. "How's it looking?" he asked, coming to sit next to her. "Any luck?"

"Nothing." She sighed, taking her cup from him, gazing up at the walls. "Are we sure we've scanned every bit of the walls – checked for somewhere she could have hidden a USB drive or a phone chip?"

Calum nodded.

"Done the rounds. Tariq says there was nothing here capable of storing information except the TV top box downstairs and a blank CD upstairs, in the stereo."

"And he checked them thoroughly?"

"Completely."

Ruth sighed. "But there's got to be something. These reference numbers refer to some sort of database. In her message to the Home Secretary, Shayne said that her chief technical analyst, Nicholas Benton, was the one who had figured out that their mole had gone rogue. She said that he worked up a profile on their man. Why would she not give us that?"

Calum shrugged. "Beats me."

"It's got to be here, somewhere... somewhere you wouldn't look for it. Inside an electrical appliance, or a remote, or something like that..."

"Or somewhere you wouldn't expect to look for a chip," Calum said, softly, a strangely distant look in his eye. "Ruth, what do you know about radio frequency identification?"

"What?"

"Microchipping," Calum said, looking up. A spark of an idea was lit in his eyes. "The dog that they found, the one that Shayne called 'Harry', Tariq mentioned that he had a microchip. They're to carry information about the animal, so that if they're found wandering they can be returned to the correct home, but, if you think about it, someone could use them to store other information."

Ruth thought about this for a moment. She supposed he was right. And it was hardly something anyone breaking in to search the place would have checked for. Her own two cats had been microchipped. It was fairly common to find that written on a collar. And anyone looking for intel here would be looking for a hard drive, or a laptop, or other tech. They wouldn't look for a dog. It made sense.

Beside her, Calum continued to talk, justifying his suspicion.

"Dimitri told me that, two years ago, you had to run down and capture a FSB officer who was ferrying information. He was carrying on an electronic chip in his forearm, using Bluetooth to upload and download the data. This could be the same."

"Where did they take the dog?" Ruth asked, suddenly nervous. Was their only chance to unravel Shayne's mystery gone, because of their efficiency in clearing up a scene? What had happened to the animal? Who had taken care of it, last night?

"Dimitri dropped it off at Battersea Dogs' home last night," Calum was already standing, digging in his pocket for his phone. "I'll call them up and see if we can bring it back."

.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8 – Harry _

_._

_Saturday 10__th__ December, 2011_

.

They made their way over to the pet shelter in the late hours of the afternoon, as the December sunlight was waning all around them. It was dark early, these days, thought Calum, as he stepped out of the taxi alongside Ruth and Tariq – the latter gripping a bag which held all the decoding equipment they would need, to pick up information from whatever they found on the dog. The sun was low in the sky by three o' clock. By four, it was usually below the horizon. Shortest day of the year in ten days, the officer reminded himself. Midwinter.

It certainly felt like it. The air was freezing as they strode up the front steps and pushed their way into the reception of the great rounded glass and steel building. Calum could see his breath rising in clouds from his lips. Next to him, Ruth's and Tariq's was doing the same. Not a good night to be out on the street, or in a surveillance van. He wondered, briefly, whether that was where Shayne was, now. Was she watching them, perhaps, right at this moment? Was she cursing their inability to decipher the intelligence she had gathered?

On front of him, Ruth pushed through the door to the dogs' home and Calum's thoughts retreated in on themselves. Time to find the dog. Time to work, he told himself, with a heavy sigh. They would get the key that decoded this information of Shayne's then he could leave Ruth and Tariq to it, and he could go get some dinner. His stomach was growling like mad. He hadn't eaten anything all day except for two slices of pizza, at lunch. He was starving.

Inside the building, the air was warmer and there was a scent of disinfectant in the air. Walking up to the reception desk, Calum let Ruth take the lead. Despite her being a desk officer and him probably having seniority in the field this was her operation.

"Hi," she greeted the young woman behind the desk. "We called about twenty minutes ago, about a dog found at a crime scene?"

"Oh yes," the young woman's eyes sparked recognition. "London Met?"

"Yes,"

Ruth flashed a badge and the other two followed suit, Calum wondering whether there were specific officers, somewhere deep in the bowels of MI5, who spent their lives making fake documents. Probably there were. Probably there were people liked Tariq, he thought, as the younger man dropped his badge whilst trying to shove it back into his pocket. People who liked to grub around in the dark and search through networks and indexes and numbers and code that went on and on and on...

"Right," the woman across from them clapped her hands together and smiled widely. "I'll take you through. We have the vet checking your dog over, right now. Seems like a healthy enough fellow. Why is it you need him again?" she asked, conversationally, as they all trooped down one linoleum corridor and through a heavy fire door.

"We need to let forensics have a look at him," Calum told the kennel girl, with a small smile. "They think they might be able to get DNA trace off his collar."

"Will you be bringing him back here?"

Calum looked to Ruth, who gave an small shrug, then bluffed smoothly, "we're not sure, at the moment." The truth was, if the dog was carrying confidential MI5 intelligence. Tariq said he should be able to irradiate the chip and destroy the information after they had gathered it but, even then, Ruth wasn't sure Harry would okay with allowing the animal back into civilian custody. The poor beagle's future was looking a little bleak, to be honest. "We'll be in touch."

She smiled back and led them on.

.

The veterinary suite was as white and clinical as any hospital – in fact, Calum noted a little dubiously, it looked cleaner than any NHS hospital he had ever been to. Then again, he supposed there was no problem getting donations when you had kittens and cuddly puppies on your appeal posters. Places like this were a PR dream. Following the woman through a thick double door, Calum found himself and his colleagues standing in a small room with a table and several cupboards. Telling them someone would be through in a minute, the kennel girl slipped back out and Calum and company stood in silence, looking at each other, until the door opened again.

A young woman appeared in its frame, dog in tow.

"Here we are." Reaching down, she scooped the dog up and set him down on the table. "One Harry."

Calum couldn't help but smile slightly.

Harry. He was still not sure whether the name on the dog's tag was simply so they would know that the dog held the key to putting their intelligence together, or whether Shayne had actually named the dog after her old friend. When they had been taking the dog to Battersea, last night, Calum had called it by name and it seemed to respond. Then again, the poor sod had probably just been so glad to see someone, after days spent cooped up in the house with only the woman who came to walk it twice a day for company and the back garden to explore. He would probably respond to any name too, thought Calum, watching the vet set the dog on the table and give him a firm pat on the back.

"He seems to be in perfect health," she was telling Ruth and the others. "Since last night, we've had a scan on his microchip and learned that he is an ex-rescue, five years old, and on thyroxine medication, for a thyroid problem. One pill a day should keep him right, though." She set a small bottle of pills down on the counter beside the dog. "Make sure you give it to him with food."

"Right," Ruth nodded. There was a small frown on her face and Calum knew why.

"Was there anything else on the microchip, when you read it?" he asked the vet.

The vet frowned.

"Yes, actually, now that you mention it..." she turned around and tapped on her computer. A screen popped up, covered in letters and numbers. "We found strings of numbers and symbols tagged onto the end of the regular information. We assumed the chip is corrupted because it makes no sense. He'll need a new one," she told him, turning back from the computer. "How did you know there would be something odd about the data?"

"There is a chance the chip might have been damaged by something at the crime scene," Calum told her. A little lie, to cover up a confusing situation. "We'll look into getting it replaced as soon as we're finished with our investigation."

The vet blinked twice, perhaps in slight disbelief.

It didn't matter if she believed him, Calum thought. He and his colleagues had credentials. Now, they had the beagle. Soon, they would have the answers to their questions.

Thanking the vet, he reached out and took the lead attached to the dog's collar. He wasn't terribly sure of how to handle the animal. He had never had a dog, but he had seen people carrying them before and it seemed simple enough. Sliding one hand under the dog's chest and scooping up the back legs, he pulled the animal into his chest where it busied itself with licking his neck and ears. Charming, thought Calum, readjusting until his face was out of the animal's reach. Ruth faltered for a moment, looking as if she might be about to tell him to be careful, but managed to restrain herself – perhaps remembering her comments in the car over, during which she had mentioned several times that she was a cat person, not a dog person.

Bidding goodbye to the vet, the three spooks and their newest charge made their way back through the building and out into the bitter cold, Ruth and Tariq discussing how they were going to break in and remove the confidential data from the microchip as they went.

"It is a passive radio frequency identification system. Oscillating magnetic fields from the scanner provide energy for the chip to transmit data back," the young technical officer was explaining. "I have equipment that we use to read radar which should do the trick, with a tweak or two. Give me twenty minutes on my laptop and I'll have the program to strip the data from the scanner, too. Once we have it on the system," he gave a nod, "it should be fairly easy to run through our decryption programs. I wrote them myself – they should crack anything Shayne has to offer."

A bold claim, in Calum's opinion, but he kept his mouth shut as he walked a couple of paces ahead of the other two, stroking the beagle's soft underside. They would find their mole, even if it turned out to be a bit more difficult than Tariq was imagining it would be, at the moment. It came down to the simple fact that everybody makes mistakes. If their mole had been inside MI5 for as long as Shayne claimed he was, then he will have had plenty of time to make them within the system, where he could be tracked. Eventually, it would all come together. They would spot something and it would all make sense. Hopefully, the information that was on the drive would help them get there. They would catch this guy and prevent him from giving away any more privileged information. Hopefully it would work out.

Nestled against his chest, the beagle gave a heavy sigh.

"You and me both, buddy," Calum said, softly, stroking one white foot. "Lets just hope this doesn't turn into an all-nighter. I'm not sure what your namesake would say about you sleeping over."

Steeling themselves against the cold rain, the three spooks and one dog headed back towards the car, and back towards Thames House.

.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9 - Profile_

_._

_Sunday 11th December, 2011_

.

It was just past one in the morning when Harry arrived back on the Grid, wanting more than anything in the world just to crawl back home and into bed. The sight he was treated to as he passed through the abandoned room and into his office, however, went a ways to cheering his weary soul. Ruth was sitting at his desk – the wrong side of it, of course, in deference to his seniority – leaning over a pile of papers and folders, hard at work. She must be waiting for him, Harry realised, a faint smile playing about his lips for the first time all day. Feeling just a little less fed up with the world, he slowly made his way over towards her.

She looked up from her files as the door to his office slid open.

"Harry..."

Harry lost the rest of her greeting as his attention was immediately drawn away and downwards. Something small and calf-heighted was hurtling towards him at great speed, accompanied by the sound of paws drumming against the floor. The Section Head barely had time to realise that his assailant was a small tan, black and white dog, and that he had seen said dog before, before it leapt up against his legs, paws pressed into his shins, wagging its tail furiously. Across the way, Ruth cringed.

"Sorry," she muttered, "I didn't see you coming or I'd have restrained him or something..." she tailed off, perhaps realising that Harry was wondering why she had Bethan Shayne's beagle in his office – and why, in fact, she was in his office at all. "We thought the easiest way to strip the data off the microchip was to bring him back here," she explained, after a moments' pause. "And after finding what we did on the device, we decided it was probably safer to keep him until we figured out how to erase the data. It's highly confidential, Harry. We can't risk someone else getting their hands on it – even if it is encrypted."

Harry clicked his fingers, moving the dog further into the room before closing the door behind him and turning back to Ruth.

Why she and the dog had chosen to camp out in his office no longer seemed relevant. They had the intel.

"You got what Shayne left for us?" he asked, moving over towards his desk. "This information that her mind-map was referring to?"

"Yes."

"And did it..?" he trailed off, not sure what they had been looking for and, therefore, what it was now that they had found it. Such were the perils of not being involved in the grass-roots of the operation. "...did it help?"

Ruth nodded again. "We found an index of files which gave us all the details we were lacking on the map. We have a full profile of our mole and are busy trying to match it up to possible suspect – moving very carefully, of course."

"Of course."

Their eyes met across the room, Ruth's very blue in the lamplight. Very soft. Very tender.

He didn't deserve to be looked at like that, Harry thought, with a terrible tearing sensation in his chest. He didn't deserve her eyes upon him, with love. He deserved derision and hate and to be pushed away. He did not deserve love. Not from her. Not from anyone, but especially not from her. She was so beautiful. So utterly beautiful and good and he was just... just broken. And he had seen so much. And sadness and fear seemed to follow him around. And everything he touched turned to ash. Ash and dust and death. Always death.

"So why are you still in?" he asked his beautiful analyst, trying to hide the sudden uncomfortable pain which had cropped up in his body. "Couldn't this wait until tomorrow?"

"Thought I'd hang around and brief you on what we found. I figured that you'd be too busy to spare the time, tomorrow, what with your meeting with the FSB and the Home Secretary."

Harry couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

"I believe that is supposed to be a top-secret meeting."

"Yes," the faintest trace of a smile appeared around Ruth's eyes and mouth, "I believe it is." She didn't look ready to elaborate, but Harry stared her down and, after ten seconds or so, she relented. "The Home Secretary's admin girl, Gillian, and I were in the same college," she explained, "so we sometimes I call her directly rather than going through the regular channels. I was chatting to her today and she mentioned a meeting Towers had pencilled in for tomorrow."

"I'm sorry," Harry frowned, askance at what he was hearing. "Towers pencilled in a top-secret meeting with the FSB in his bloody diary, where anyone in admin could read it?"

Ruth gave a little chuckle. "No, but I put two and two together. There are only so many people he can be meeting with, with you, who bring their own security and require a Russian translator who has signed the Official Secrets Act."

Harry watched her, hoping the adoration he felt inside was not mirrored on his face. She was clever, was his Ruth, so very, very clever and so wonderfully suited for him. Though she was no doubt curious what was going on, in this meeting, but she would never ask him more. She knew that he couldn't tell her. She understood.

Beautiful, clever woman.

Turning from her, he made his way around to his chair and sat down in it heavily, laying the file atop a few other that were gathered there – most the product of Ruth's evening spent working on the surface. He was tired, but he knew he should hear her out. Being briefed on this now would save him time in the long run. It would also take his mind off what he had been through today and off what his meeting, tomorrow, was about. It would soothe his battered soul to listen to her speak to him, for just a few minutes.

"Right," he sighed, leaning back in his chair, "impart upon me all of your wisdom."

"I couldn't possibly," Ruth quipped – solely for his pleasure, Harry could tell – "it would take far too long. I can, however give you a brief profile of 'Vincent' if you'd like? I'll leave out all but the most salient details, for expediency's sake."

"Sounds good."

"Right." Ruth grabbed a sheet and slid it over.

Harry picked it up.

"This is the best photo we have of our man," she told him, her tone strictly professional again, curt and controlled.

Harry looked down at the photo.

"This is awful. We must have something better than a grainy shot of his..." he squinted "...ear."

"I'm afraid we haven't. And everything we do have has been run through facial recog," Ruth said, "It's thrown up nothing." She pulled free another sheet. "I'll do this chronologically, if that's okay with you?"

"Yes, yes," Harry nodded. "Go ahead." He stifled a yawn. Bed could wait for now. For now, he needed to catch up on what he had missed today and hear Ruth's voice. (He wasn't sure which of these two incentives were more important to him but, fortunately for now, he did not have to choose. One rather relied on the other.) Reaching down, he picked up the beagle from where it had been showing inordinate interest in the leather of his shoes and pulled it into his lap. It wriggled around, for a couple of seconds, then settled to having its ears and head stroked.

Ruth's eyes flickered with warmth but, giving a clear of her throat, she continued in the vein of the professional. Shaking a paper free of its cover file, she pushed it over to him.

Harry took it, with his free hand.

"Five years ago," his analyst began, "Shayne was running a team of four agents in an SIS station in Cairo. Their task was to orchestrate a meeting between this man," Ruth pointed to the photo at the top of the page, "a wealthy politician in the area, and an export merchant who also happened to be a key member of an Islamic fundamentalist group whose name translates as '_sword of truth'_." She raised her eyes back to Harry's, the shine in them brighter somehow now that she was doing what she loved. "To do this, they needed information on the group which we were rumoured to have. To obtain this information, they were put in contact with an analyst at Five – handle name 'Vincent'."

"Do we know who, in Six, put them in contact?"

Ruth shook her head, looking back down at her papers.

"All Shayne's analyst knew him as was 'a recruiter'. Apparently, he was employed to sight out possible assets in London. No longer on payroll."

"Alive?" Harry asked, bluntly.

"No, a dead-end."

"So what else do we know about Vincent?" Harry asked, moving swiftly on. (No point dwelling on failures). "Do we have any meets, any physical details, job details, things he was working on..?"

"We don't have much, to be honest," Ruth sighed. "Even back here, the information is sketchy. Neither Shayne nor any members of her team ever met their man in person, though one of her team did once speak to him on the phone – which is how we know he is male. I've done the obligatory background checks on Shayne's team, to see if any of them could have been collaborating with the mole. It appears to be this man," Ruth pushed a photograph across to him, "Nicholas Benson, Shayne's tactical coordinator, was the only one to have served with her through all of the past ten years. Incidentally," she added, "he was the technical analyst who realised that Vincent had turned rogue."

Harry looked. A man around his age, maybe a little younger, looked back at him. Nicholas Benson. One of the six they had been staring at for days – branded traitors by the SIS, branded victims by Shayne, dead either way. Poor sod, Harry thought, tearing his eyes away from the photo and scratching the dog on his lap behind it's ears. He probably didn't know what he was getting into when he started all of this. From his file, he was relatively late to join the Service. Thirty two years old and straight from a cushy job in the private sector, where he had apparently done impressive things with network security. Things Ruth and Tariq would appreciate, Harry thought to himself, but that would go straight over his own head.

"Do we trust him?" he asked.

"Well, I doubt he orchestrated this all," Ruth answered stoically. "Not unless he was suicidal. He was one of the six officers killed in the field. Part of Shayne's core team."

"Wait, I thought he was an analyst? What was he doing in the field?"

"He was Vincent's handler. Shayne thought it might put the mole at ease."

There was a long silence.

It was the sort of situation which Harry feared happening. Would he ever forgive himself, he wondered, if something happened to her because of a situation he had helped create? How did Shayne sleep at night? How did she deal with the idea that her order, to bring Vincent in (though she never could have predicted the consequences), resulted in the deaths of six of her people?

She didn't sleep, he supposed, was the answer. Instead, she made mind maps of vengeance on her walls. Instead, she risked her freedom and life to bring the man behind it to justice. Instead, she hid in safehouses and on the street, on the run from everything she had ever known and trusted. Instead, she wallowed in the guilt...

It must have been eating her alive, thought Harry. Her whole team dead. Just imagine it.

Calum, Dimitri, Tariq, Erin, Ruth.

_Ruth_...

"How did Shayne's analyst, Benson, figure out that their mole was doing freelance work?" he asked, quietly, trying desperately to distract himself from the thought.

"Quite by coincidence," Ruth answered, "from an asset inside the Chinese MSS. He learned that a man called 'Vaughn', who was also working for the Chinese, had gained access to information about a MI5 officer's address and telephone number."

"Lucas's address and telephone number..." Harry felt a strange pang of emotion. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Confusion.

"Yes."

"Do we know the asset?"

"No." Ruth pulled her hands back towards her and folded them in her lap, looking thoughtful. "Once Benson figured out that the source was their source, their mole, however, he went straight to Shayne. She brought the rest of the team in on it and they decided to identify Vincent and eliminate him before he could sell any more information. They couldn't simply turn him into us because that would mean admitting that Six had placed him, see?" She gave a wry smile. "Anyway, try as they might, they could not identify their mole's real identity. Their sticking point was a lack of access to MI5's personnel data files, to compare possible suspects. According to Shayne, they tried several times to access MI5 personnel files and I assume that, during one of those attempts to gain access, the mole must have caught wind of what they were doing. That was why, when they tried to get him to come to them, he saw through the trap and shopped them out to a local militia group."

Harry thought about this for a long few moments, stroking the beagle as it sat on his lap.

"Surely we can track what level of access our mole is at according to what he was passing to Shayne?" he asked, eventually.

Ruth shook her head. "That's what I thought, too, but I'm afraid the logic doesn't follow through. Some of the data he is accessing is not available to anyone but Section Heads but Shayne has mentioned, more than once, that Vincent was a tech analyst when they placed him."

"Analysts can make it to management," Harry pointed out. "Jack Harrow, in C section, came through data analysis and encryption."

"Harrow is very much the exception to the rule," Ruth replied. "I've been tracing career paths for the last few hours and, I'm afraid, there is nobody who matches this pattern of clearance. So he must be gaining access through hacking the network. Forging security clearance codes."

"Is that possible?"

"Anything is possible if you know the network well enough."

Harry took a second or two to feel truly worried about the direction that terrorism was taking. In his time, intelligence gathering had been a game of field-craft and officers on the ground. Now, it was strings of numbers and letters across a screen. It could be done from anywhere in the world and anyone in the world could do it – providing they had an internet connection and a lot of time and patience. Hackers, crackers, coders and whatever – these were the people who would be the next wave of criminals and crime fighters. In twenty years time, it would be men like Tariq who made up the majority of the Service, thought Harry with a strange twist in his gut. Old dogs like him would be less important.

"So our mole is has a mid-level security clearance?" he asked.

"Probably five or six," Ruth confirmed.

"And started in analysis?"

"Or one of the technical departments. Or admin."

"Christ..."

"I know. It's a long list of possible candidates."

"How are we looking to shorten it?"

"Well," Ruth sighed, picking up another file, "I've got lists of dates during which the mole had to be on site, at Thames House, in order to get access to our internal network and access data. I've also graded our suspect search on a number of other variables, including the availability of the information he's been handling. I'm afraid there is only so much we can do with our cross-referencing programs, however." She looked up at him, weary all of a sudden. "The rest has to be ruled out manually and it's going to take a while for me to sift through the chaff."

A wave of gratitude flooded Harry. It was going to be a bloody nightmare, by the sounds of it, but Ruth was not complaining. She knew this was part of the job and she would go above and beyond her job description (and hours) to do it for him. She would work hard and long and tirelessly – and Harry knew it was not just for the good of the Service, as a whole. She had been even more invested than usual, this past week, since he had returned. Perhaps she thought that, if their Section output was higher than usual, the tribunal panel would spare him, at the end of the month.

"You'll have the rest of the team when I can spare them," Harry promised his analyst.

"If you can give me Calum, when possible, that would be good."

"When I can, Ruth," he told her, softly. "Tariq too. We'll all do our best to help out."

"I know that." She gave a smile. They sat for just a moment, looking down at all the files between them. Then, Ruth did something Harry did not expect. Leaning slightly closer, she pushed the subject away from work and onto the personal. "How did it go with your solicitor earlier?" she asked.

Harry blinked.

"Oh, that..." His stomach dropped away inside of him just thinking about _that_.

Suddenly, he wanted to tell her almost as much as he had done this morning, when the idea of it was so sudden and overwhelming. It was the same thought that held him back now as it had been earlier, however. Sharing something like this secret was not the sort of thing you did with a colleague – and Ruth had made it abundantly clear that that was what she wanted to be. Her words from one of their conversations on the rooftop, earlier that year, still rung in his head sometimes. 'We couldn't be more together than we are, now'. She wanted this. She wanted him as her boss and her professional confidant. She didn't want, or maybe simply wasn't ready, to take on him in a personal sense.

Harry understood that. He was a hell of a project to take on, after all. He had baggage enough for ten people. He was laced with scars and secrets. There were things about his past which made him who he was, which were an integral part of who he was, yet he could never share them with another living soul. He was complicated. Unduly complicated, even for a man in their profession. He was broken in ways which could never be fixed and, as well as all of that, he was a constant reminder of the most painful parts of Ruth's life.

Harry understood why she wanted to remain colleagues. He understood how they could be more honest as colleagues than they ever could be as lovers. But some nights, like tonight, he wondered what he wouldn't give not to be honest and just to have her – to accept that there was always going to be an insurmountable barrier between their pasts, but to join their futures together.

"It's just something I'm working through. Family things." He cleared his throat.

Ruth watched, eyes blue and not quite fixed in one expression yet. She could be angry, or disappointed, or hurt, Harry couldn't tell. Whatever the emotion was, however, it passed in a few second and her neutral work face was back in place.

"Well, I hope you manage to clear it up."

"So do I. I could do with a clear inbox and a good nights' sleep."

"Couldn't we all..." They stared at each other for a long moment, then the dog moved and Ruth looked down, eyes glad to have found something else for the conversation to settle on because the last few words of it had grown somewhat cold – with his refusal to talk about what was bothering him. "He needs somewhere to stay," she told Harry, nodding to the beagle. "You couldn't take him tonight, could you, just until we figure out how to wipe the data off the microchip?"

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Me?"

"Yes, Harry, you." Ruth looked slightly impatient. "You have a garden. The rest of us don't. It makes sense."

"Yes, I suppose it does..." He paused, to frown, her words catching his curiosity. "How do you know I have a garden?"

Ruth regarded him carefully, for a long moment, then (with stoicism Ros would have been proud of) answered, "I've stalked you extensively."

Harry blinked in surprise.

She stalked him. Extensively.

He knew she had done, of course – at some time or another. He knew she had accessed his file more than any other member of staff, perhaps more than all the other members of staff put together, but she had never ever said anything about it and he had never mentioned it either. Like the secret way they watched each other across rooms, it was just one of those things they did and refused to acknowledge. Where was this new boldness coming from, he wondered, adrenaline shooting through him as he watched Ruth's blue eyes dance across his face. Why was she suddenly so bold?

Not that it wasn't nice to hear. He liked to know that she cared enough about him to know where he lived, to know where he was if she ever needed him. It implied that she thought she might need him – and that was a lovely thought. There was nobody in the world he would rather be needed by.

God, it was an overwhelming relief to find out that she had not completely given up on them. And it was an even bigger delight to find out that she had decided to move things forwards – because that was what this was. It had to be. Ruth was changing the game. Instead of being the one to move away, she was moving forwards. This was flirting, albeit on a strange new level. This was progress. Admitting that they needed each other. Admitting that they cared. This was the first step towards something bigger, something that might, one day, lead into something real. Them.

They could be a 'them'. There was still a chance of a 'them'...

"So will you take the dog?" Ruth asked, looking remarkably calm, across from him.

Harry swallowed and nodded, roughly, his voice not quite capable of cooperating with words.

"Good." She looked back down at the desk, reaching out to stuff papers back inside their file folders. "There is a bowl, lead and food in the bag next door, on Calum's desk. Tariq says he'll have some safe way of eradicating the data on the chip by tomorrow afternoon, after he's finished with his current tasks, so he'll be out of your way by then, unless we get side-tracked on Erin and Dimitri's new case."

A long pause sounded, during which Ruth tapped the rest of her papers together and Harry swallowed repeatedly.

"They should be in the field until the day after tomorrow," he eventually managed to stagger out with – the fact that they were talking about work his only grounding point. "I've got officers Brown and Osoba covering their comms and tactical needs," he told her. "You Tariq and Calum should have free reign on the Shayne case, barring any other mishaps."

Good." She looked over at the dog in his arms. "You're okay to look after him, aren't you? I know you've had dogs before..."

"Oh, we'll be fine. I have Scarlet's old bed and things lying around in one of the spare rooms so I'll bring them through. Not sure about sharing my name, but we'll work something out. I could just call it 'dog', after all. Don't think he'd mind..." Realising he was rambling somewhat, Harry forced himself to stop talking.

Across the way, Ruth continued to watch him, eyes piercing.

Harry wished he looked a little less flustered. She seemed so calm. Why wasn't he calm? He was always the calm one...

Ten seconds or so passed and then, seemingly deciding it was time to cut and run while the going was good, Ruth stood up and brushed her clothes down.

"Right. I should be off," she said, in that stoic tone, once more. Pulling her files into a neat stack at the side of the desk, she reached behind her and pulled her coat on, from where it had been hanging over the back of his office chair. "Should probably get a few hours of sleep before coming in again."

"Yes. Of course." Overcome by the sudden gentlemanly desire to walk her to the door, Harry stood up and stepped out from behind his desk. The beagle was still cradled in his arms, legs now dangling uselessly below it. "Well, goodbye then."

Ruth's stoic expression slipped slightly, as she watched him, replaced by gentle warmth. Taking her hand off her stacked files, she walked around the desk and came to a halt beside him. Then, reaching out, she gave the beagle's ears a gentle stroke goodbye. Harry almost held his breath. Her reaching out was bringing the pair of them closer than they had been in years. To his surprise and great delight, however, Ruth did not seem nervous about it. Instead, she looked relaxed and softly affectionate – all of her attention was focussed downwards, on the dog. Harry grasped their new mediation device a little tighter. Why hadn't he thought of this before now, he wondered, to himself? He had had a dog for years. He should have wooed her with Scarlett!

Slender fingers playing over the animal's tan and white head, Ruth gave a little smile.

"I'm usually more of a cat person, but he's growing on me," she informed Harry, rubbing the soft velvet above the animal's wet black nose. "You will take care of him, won't you?"

"I will," he assured her, with all the composure he could summon up.

Ruth tilted her head back, meeting his eyes fully from her position just inches away. They were so close, Harry thought, feeling his blood thunder past his ears. He could lean forwards and kiss her, if he wanted to. And he did want to. Every single inch of him wanted to. She was so beautiful. Though he knew that there were more symmetrical, more finely chiselled human beings alive in the world, he could not, for the life of him, imagine why anyone would want to look at one of them when they could look at her. She was just so perfectly Ruth. Just Ruth.

"You'll take care of yourself too, won't you, Harry?" she asked, her fingers sliding down to the dog's neck, her forearm resting against the back of his hand as he cradled the dog to his chest. "I know you have a lot on your plate right now and I don't expect you to tell me what its all about," she told him, looking nervous for the first time since Harry had entered the office. "You can though, if you ever want to. Anytime you need to talk... anytime you want to, that is..." she drifted off, dropping her gaze to his cheeks, lips, chin, down to the dog and then up to meet his again, giving a tiny smile. "I'm here if you need me. You know that, don't you?"

Yes. Harry would be damned if he knew what she was there for him as – a colleague, a friend, something more – but, however it was, he knew she _was_ there for him. He had known she was there for him for years. He trusted her more than he trusted anyone else in this world, including himself. And he wished he could talk to her about this. He really did. It was just so... complicated.

"I know," he told her, swallowing back the millions of thoughts and emotions that rose to the surface. Now wasn't the time to share them. Now wasn't the time to share anything. He was bound by the official secrets act regarding the Russians and he was bound by a lot of uncertainty, regarding the business with the solicitor. He would tell her once things settled down, he promised himself, once things were clearer. "Thank you," he murmured.

Realising that this spelled the end of their moment, Ruth gave a small sigh, nodded and looked away from his eyes again. Her expression was slightly disappointed but, thankfully, not angry. Sliding her fingers down, she gave one of the dog's front paws a little squeeze and murmured a goodbye to him. Then, she sliding her hand back up, she ran her fingers over the back of Harry's – unexpectedly shadowing his hand with her own.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she told him softly.

Harry's lips parted, but no words came out.

Ruth was touching him. Voluntarily.

He considered widening the distance between his fingers to allow hers to fall between them but, by the time the impulse had gone from his mind to his muscles, it was too late. Ruth had already pulled back.

"Goodnight, Harry," she murmured to him.

"Goodnight, Ruth," he mumbled back, completely overwhelmed.

A slight smile rose to her lips but she did not say anything more. Instead, she turned back to the desk, gathered her files, and vacated the room, leaving Harry standing with the beagle in his arms and his head swimming with confusion.

Who was this bold new woman and what had she done to Ruth Evershed? He was in no doubt that he loved this part of her every bit as much as he loved the cautious side he was more used to. Still, it was unusual and new and Harry wasn't used to it yet. Hopefully, she would remain bold so that he would get time to acclimatise, he thought, realising the dog in his arms was really rather heavy and leaning down to set him back on the ground. Hopefully, he thought, Ruth would have patience with him over the next few days, so that he could sort out the mess that was his personal life. And maybe then, he thought, maybe then – for once – they would be in the right place at the right time and on the right page – together. He had waited so long for that moment.

Turning back to his now almost-empty desk, he set his mind to logging off the system and tidying up what little clutter there was across its surface. It was clean the office, then head home, to settle Harry the beagle in and get some sleep. Glancing down at the dog, Harry now saw him in a slightly different light. It was not an irritatingly-named burden left to him by an old friend, now turned sort-of enemy. It was a mediation device, through which he and Ruth were miraculously able to be close to one another and to talk.

They wouldn't be calling Battersea, to drop the dog off tomorrow, he decided. Not yet, anyways.

.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N – I'm in a rush to get this done to by the date I've set for myself, so here are three chapters at once. Thanks for all the lovely comments – and a special thanks to all the lovely people who fix my grammatical/spelling/stupid plot hole mistakes. Should be more Christmas and more H/R tomorrow. –Silver._

_Chapter 10 – Breakthrough_

_._

_December 17, 2011_

_._

As the days stretched on, Ruth found herself falling more and more into the dark world of Bethan Shayne. Tariq's decryption of the information on the dog's microchip had led them to a program which accessed an online databank of files, allowing Ruth to match the reference numbers on the mind-map to solid source material. Unfortunately, however, being in possession of all the data only got them halfway to solving the problem. Now that they had a profile, they had to suffer through the arduous process of narrowing down the suspect pool on their end, eliminating personnel until they had a small enough group to put surveillance on.

It was necessary but frustrating; pretty much an advertisement for what her job, to be honest.

No, that wasn't entirely fair, Ruth thought, leaning back in her chair and taking a moment out to stare up at the ceiling. Her job was not all bad. She loved her job, really, underneath all the complaining and griping at her colleagues. At heart, she was an analyst. She liked things in order. She liked working in the confines of the Grid and, she could admit now, she even enjoyed the occasional foray out into the wider world – the thrill of mad, dangerous adrenaline that raced through her when she was in the field, Calum or Harry's voice guiding her through an operation, through her earpiece. And Harry, of course. She was pretty mad about working near Harry.

Ruth glanced over at his empty office. He seemed a little less down these last few days, compared to the few before, that was. Still, there was definitely something up with him. He spent a lot of time on the phone. He was almost always gone from the office by six o' clock and appeared a little more flustered than usual when he did come in. Ruth knew that the talks with the Russians had fallen through, whatever they had entailed (Harry hadn't mentioned that either) so what was keeping him, she wondered? Was this the family business he had been dealing with, with his solicitor?

Almost a week having past since she had cornered him in his office, Ruth knew she should be satisfied that he was not avoiding her and leave it at that, but she couldn't help herself. She was naturally curious. Harry was being unnaturally evasive. She had to find out what was going on.

Resolved to finding out what Harry was hiding, Ruth had cornered him twice again, over the last two days, and – her boldness somehow feeding on itself, in a sort of positive feedback reaction – asked him for coffee sometime.

She was going insane, she knew she was, but it felt strangely liberating. It had felt gloriously freeing to stand across from Harry and ask him for coffee sometime, to watch the way he watched her cautiously, holding back the pleasure in his eyes until he was sure he wasn't misreading the situation. The fear in her had not lessened any, she thought, taking a moment to analyst her memory of the moment. It was still there, raw and biting in her belly. It seemed different, though. No less potent, but somehow less important than other feelings running through her.

Things were complicated but so was life. She was ready for something more but he was still cautious. Naturally, then, she was going to have to make him less cautious. She was going to have to give him reason to feel secure – to know she wanted this.

He had turned her down for coffee the other day because of his busy schedule. Maybe she should ask him again, when he arrived this morning, Ruth thought, playing with a strand of hair from the back of her ponytail, running the tips of it against her finger pads. She was wearing her nice clothes, today. She was even wearing a little makeup. Now would be a sensible time to make a move – not that she thought the state of her mascara would sway Harry very much. He had seen her at her worst. He had seen her sprayed with tears and blood.

Her thoughts were shattered by the appearance of Calum and Dimitri at her elbow, the latter brandishing his bandage-wrapped arm aloft.

"Look who's back!" Calum exclaimed, pushing the younger officer forwards with an enormous slap on the shoulder. "And he's somehow walked away with all ten fingers intact, yet again."

"Jammy bugger," Ruth quipped, regarding the pair of them. "I take it you two have just broken free from the clutches of medical?"

"Yeah, they're keeping Daniel in another day," Dimitri informed her, preventing her from having to ask how the other young officer who had been injured in the bomb blast was doing.

The pair of them had been involved in Erin's operation to infiltrate and disband a dangerous quasi-Christian fundamentalist group, led by a man who's primary interest seemed to be mass human casualties, rather than spiritual enlightenment. It had all been going smoothly until a young woman who Dimitri was turning, inside the lower ranks of the cult, had a change of heart and had gone running back to her parents – close friends of the cult's charismatic (and rather mad) leader. Realising that his plan was on the verge of disembowelment by the Security Service, the cult leader had called all of his people to worship and tried to make martyrs of the lot of them in an unwitting suicide – poisoning the wine they used in their quasi-communion.

SO19, using Dimitri's knowledge of the building and a secret passage there, managed to get in and stop things before they got out of hand. Two civilians, Dimitri and one of his fellow field officers were injured in the gunfight that ensued, but there were no casualties save the cult leader. They were lucky. Dimitri was lucky, in particular, to have only caught the bullet across the side of his forearm. It had taken a couple of stitches to get him back together, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

"How does it feel?" Ruth asked, motioning towards his arm.

"Oh, it's fine..." the young officer pulled a face, "a bit stiff but nothing I can't handle."

"He's just being macho, Ruth, to impress you," Calum informed her, in a stage whisper. "He cried like a baby all the way back from the hospital."

Dimitri shot him a slightly irritated look, but Ruth saw a smile hiding not too far beneath the surface.

It was nice, seeing them all begin to gel together, she thought with her own hidden smile. This was what it must be like for Harry, over the years, seeing them all come and go, seeing new teams form from the fragments of the old team, seeing his people grow closer – only to be ripped apart by the next sacrifice. Hopefully the next sacrifice wouldn't be for a while, she thought, watching Calum continue to goad and Dimitri eventually rise to the bait, squabbling back. Hopefully they would have time to get closer, to learn each other a little, to know what each other truly were and what they dreamt of – to make some memories before they were taken by the Service.

That was the only thing that made the inevitability of their deaths bearable, Ruth had learned, after years of trying to keep her colleagues at arms' distance. The belief in what they were doing, the knowing that they would be remembered; that was what got them through. She still thought of Zaf and Adam, of Jo and Ros, of Danny and Zoe. She thought of them every day. It might not have made their deaths worth it but, coupled with the lives that they had saved, it made them make sense.

"How many stitches?" she asked Dimitri as she moved a thick wad of folders to one side of her desk, making room for Calum to sit on the end.

"Fourteen."

"I got more than that when I cut my thumb on an iron gate, when I was ten," Calum prodded.

"Yeah, but the thread they used on mine is that dissolvable stuff. It's practically _twine_."

"It's very impressive," Ruth commented, from the side. "You look practically debilitated."

Both men looked over, Dimitri looking slightly proud, Calum looking slightly indignant. He was just opening his mouth to make another clever comment when Tariq ran through – actually ran – skidding to a halt on front of the desk. The three spooks fell silent, staring at him.

"I've got-," he panted, "-got him... Vincent..." he raised a paper and held it out to Ruth.

For a second she faltered, not sure what he meant, then her brain clicked into gear.

Vincent. He'd found Vincent.

"How?" she stammered, sitting bolt upright in her chair and snatching the paper from the young technical officer's hand. "And who is he?"

"His name is Avery Price," Tariq told her, breathlessly, gesturing towards the sheet of paper. "Works for C Section, on systems analysis. He matches our profile one hundred percent and I've looked into his banking practices – his real ones, not the ones he has submitted to Internal Affairs. He accessed an account in Switzerland the other week which has seen five hundred thousand pass through it in the last year alone."

"And he couldn't make that through legal means?" asked Ruth, poring over the page.

Tariq raised an eyebrow.

"How much do you earn, doing analysis?"

"Okay," Ruth nodded, conceding, "do we have his current details?"

"Yes. On the bottom of that page..." the young officer leant against the desk, giving another heavy puff of breath. "Phew... sorry," he apologised, as Calum looked enquiringly at him, "just ran all the way up from Archives."

"Are you going to make it?" Calum asked sarcastically.

"I think I'll be fine," Tariq answered – missing the tone completely.

Ignoring their interchange, Ruth continued to scan the piece of paper he had given her, Dimitri craning to read over her shoulder. The top half was a rambling paragraph of personnel numbers and dates, but the bottom half was more interesting. It listed the operations he had been on, during his time with the Service. His current mission was listed under a code that sparked familiarity, somewhere deep in Ruth's brain. She frowned. She knew that code. She had read it recently... but where? Where had she seen it?

An idea sparked.

Abandoning the paper Tariq had handed her to Calum and Dimitri, she reached over and opened up an internal network file search, on her system. Tapping in a string of numbers and letters, then her clearance codes when a request popped up, she hit enter and leant eagerly forwards in her chair. After a few seconds of searching, an operation file sprang onto her screen. It was accompanied by a feeling of 'oh shit' deep in her stomach.

"What's that?" asked Calum, leaning over.

"Avery Price's current operation. He's on a security detail," Ruth frowned, "something run by his Section Chief and the MOD."

"That can't be good..." Calum muttered.

Dimitri and Tariq made noises of agreement.

Ruth scrolled down, searching. When she had found what she was looking for, she muttered "crap," and leant back in her chair again.

"What is it?" Dimitri asked, while Calum leant forwards to find the answer for himself instead.

"He's watching a package they intercepted from a hostile group," Ruth sighed, turning to face her three colleagues. "I knew I had seen the code before. It was during a briefing I attended with Harry, last week." The others exchanged a brief glance, perhaps wondering why she had been included. Feeling an irrational need to justify why Harry had chosen her above any of the rest of the team, Ruth leant forwards a little and explained. "We were brought in to debrief on a similar project we had run, about a year before I had to leave the Service. You probably know about it – it was the reason I was brought back from exile." A euphemism if ever there was one. "Certain people on our radar were discovered to have access to a WMD," she explained, for any present who did not know the story. "We had to take it into our custody to prevent lives being lost. Myself and Harry were told in our briefing, the other morning, that this was a similar situation." She motioned towards the report on the computer screen. "C Section lifted a package suspected of being a weapon, during a raid on a terrorist group. The package is said to be 'a target-capable mass-casualty weapon' which, in the wrong hands, could pose a serious threat to British lives."

"Sounds not dissimilar to Albany," Calum noted as he read, prompting Dimitri and Tariq to look slightly uncomfortable.

Ruth didn't bother with discomfort. Calum didn't mean it that way. He never did. He said things bluntly and as they were. It was something she was getting used to and, funnily enough, quite enjoying. It was liberating, finally having someone who was willing to say exactly what he thought about a situation, or a person, straight to her face. He was the only one of the team, for instance, who ever complained to her about Harry or Harry's operational decisions. Everyone else seemed to think she'd fly off the handle, or side with their boss without question. Not Calum, though. Calum didn't ignore the fact that she and Harry had a long, complicated and somewhat intimate history, but he didn't define her by it either.

It was nice, for a change, to be considered an unremarkable phenomenon – just two people who happened to have fallen in love. It made Ruth feel grounded in a way she had never felt before, during her and Harry's long and arduous journey. It made them seem like less of a mad dream and more of a reality. Perhaps, Ruth thought, he was why she was growing so bold, in her small steps back towards their boss. Perhaps having someone blunt and tactless in her life that wasn't Harry was helping her realise what her situation really looked like and not just how it felt, from the inside.

"Yes," she nodded, reaching over and pressing several keys, "it sounds a little like Albany." Pulling up the lower part of the report, she pressed on a series of photo attachments and clicked on them to fill the screen. "Whatever it is is different, however, in that it yields results. Thirty five dead in Pakistan, earlier this year. Fourteen of them were school children under the age of ten. This is a real weapon – not some scare-tactic kept as a deterrent."

Calum frowned, looking through the photos. "Shit, what is it?"

"It's classified. C Section gave us a briefing of its capabilities but, for now, we're without the details. From the damage inflicted by previous attacks and the facilities under which its being kept, now, we've gathered its a biological agent, dispersed by a novel piece of software."

"Software?"

"An advanced intelligent program which targets infrastructure – water, electrics ect. It's actually a bigger threat than what it spreads, in the long run." Ruth started then turned to Tariq, who finished the explanation for her.

"...a computer program can be used to more devastating effect than an atomic bomb, if correctly judged. Our cities are so completely reliant on technology that we could be brought to our knees by some sort of super mutating virus."

"So how come this hasn't happened before?"

"It has, to a certain degree," Ruth stepped in and told them. "There have been cyber attacks on individual systems and on the more complex networks like gas, water, or our internet service providers. So far no one's designed something that can handle multiple firewall attacks simultaneously, however, and its targeting more than one system that would cause the most destruction. Its the bogeyman on the counterterrorism scene," she explained, as Tariq nodded beside her. "Take down one system and then all the systems that could bring it back online. And then attack. Repeatedly."

The four spooks turned their eyes back to the screen.

A silence fell between them as they took it all in.

A weapon which might have huge implications on the future security of their city, which could lead to the deaths of tens of thousands if not millions of British citizens, was in the hands of a rogue agent. He was one member of a three-man team assigned to guard it. Three man teams meant that, at some point, he was going to be left alone while the other two were either sleeping. He was going to be in sole control of the package. The possibilities, with the contacts Shayne said he had, were endless – and almost too terrible to imagine. The images of the dead Pakistani schoolchildren burned through Ruth's eyes, into her mind. Reaching over, she minimized the window and turned to the others.

Someone needed to get them moving. With Erin and Harry absent, seniority fell to Calum in the field and to her, on the Grid – making it slightly debatable as to which of them was to take control now. Technically, they were still on site, but their movements were in regard to a field operation. Calum did not immediately move forwards, however, so she decided to make a stab at it. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze and fixed her colleagues in it.

"Okay," she said slowly, working things through in her head, "this is bad, but we have to consider the positive aspect. If Price is on active guard duty, then someone has to know where he is at all times. He's probably holed up in a safehouse somewhere. His Section Chief is running this operation so he'll know, even if its not logged in on the internal network."

Tariq tapped hurriedly into his handheld. "I have a number for Price's direct superior but I don't know if we can risk it. Anything that implies we know something is up with their operation could alert the mole and he could run."

"If he runs, he'll take everything he has access to," Calum pointed out. "That means either the information he's gathered at home, or the secret he's guarding at work."

Ruth nodded vigorously. "Mm. You're right, we can't risk it." She frowned, wracking her brain. "Okay... other ways to find him... Calum?" she turned to the blonde officer, who was watching her intently. "Can you find out what safehouses we have 'in use' and find out which are really being used and which are actually dormant, awaiting meets? The best way is to check the gas and electricity bills listed to the properties. If they're camping out in their all day, in this weather, then they have the heating on at more than 'defrost'."

"Good idea," he nodded and stood up, making his way quickly over to his own system, a few metres away. "I'm on it."

"Thanks. Make sure you don't mention Price. Now," Ruth continued. "Tariq, you and I need to get as much together as we can. Background, family details, etcetera. We can't access it on the internal network without risking setting off some sort of booby trap so we'll go down to archives and access it straight from the server. Dimitri," she turned. The ex-SBS man stood, almost to attention. "I need you to get Harry and Erin in here and brief them on what's going on." She reached down and grabbed her phone off the desktop. "Harry's in with the Home Secretary so use my emergency line. That should get you through." She did not bother to stop and justify why she was the only one apart from Erin – who had cause, being Harry's Section Chief – to have an emergency patch-through to him. The situation was volatile. They needed to work fast and keep their minds on the job. "Keep radio silence on Price, as before. If he realises we're onto him and he'll disappear faster than we can blink. He's had years to plan an exit. Let's not let him use it."

Dimitri nodded and darted off to his own desk, followed by Tariq, tapping madly on his handheld as he went – probably accessing the programs they would need once they were down in archives, streaming information directly to their consoles. He was a good officer. Fast. Clever. Brilliant.

"Should I call SO19?" Calum called, as Ruth logged quickly out of her system and prepared to follow her youngest colleague down to the basement archive rooms.

"Yes. Get two teams on standby – get Erin or Harry to call and give them the clearance as soon as you can. You're in charge, by the way, until they get in. I'll keep in contact with what we find, downstairs." She grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and switched off her screen, throwing her coat over her shoulder and her phone into her pocket in case she needed to go somewhere directly from downstairs, later. "Thanks by the way," she added, glancing over at her colleague as she started out across the room. "For not contesting my lead, back there."

Calum shot her a cheeky grin.

"Darling, there are worse aspects of my job than being your 'yes man'."

Ruth would have blushed, or shot back some clever retort, if she had not been in such a rush. As it was, she just had time to throw him a vaguely disgruntled look before hurtling out through the door.

.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11 – Vincent_

_._

_December 17, 2011_

.

The hour between finding out about Avery Price and Calum Reid finding himself sitting in a tactical jump-car, waiting to raid the building he was located in, passed in a haze of database searches and shouted conversations. Harry and Erin had arrived back on the Grid to find their officers up to their necks in personnel files, trying to find out as much as they could about this new figure, this new shadowy mole who they had uncovered. Harry retreated immediately to his office and began negotiating the situation with SO19. Erin grabbed Dimitri and Calum and told them to get their tactical gear on – that they were going in themselves.

This was a bit of an excitement for Calum, to be perfectly honest. He had spent most of his career in Section D, so far, situated behind a desk. Though he did not begrudge having to work his way up in the estimations of his new boss, nor particularly dislike technical analysis, he was a little miffed to be put aside so after having such glowing field recommendations from different departments. He had been one of A's top field officers, before his transfer. His old colleagues would have chuckled merrily to see what he had turned into now, he thought, slightly overfed and a little wasted in muscle from being indoors for too long. As he pulled on his bulletproof vest and jacket, holstered his handgun and followed Dimitri and Erin out into a black van, then, it was with barely pent-up excitement. His heart was racing, adrenaline shooting through him. He felt alert and effective and very alive.

This was what they joined for really, he thought, looking around at the other officers inside the back of the van – some older than him, some younger, some tactical assault, some SO19 and then he, Dimitri and Erin. They joined for the rush. There were other ways to serve your country, after all. He supposed that was why the people in HR, the ones who recruited apparently based on 'transferable skill and psychometric suitability', knew asked the questions they did in their interviews. It was to weed out the applicants who were too interested in the adrenaline thrill or the recognition. It was to select those who were truly were there to sacrifice and serve, in order to defend.

Calum would like to place himself solely in that category but the truth was – and he was sure he saw his one-on-one interviewer considering this deeply, during their short time together – he was an adrenaline junkie. He loved the thrill. The recognition he could take or leave. (It was nice to have, within the department, but he wasn't bothered about the great civilian population never knowing he existed. In fact, he thought it was a little romantic, almost poetic.) The adrenaline thrill was what he lived for.

The thrill didn't just come in the field, of course. The thrill came from any situation in which he was instrumental in bringing down the bad guys, saving the innocent, or just generally kicking ass. Kicking ass behind a computer screen was every bit as valid, he thought, but it didn't come along as often – for him, at least. He was a decent cracker and a good enough analyst but he was a cracking field agent. Out here, he knew exactly who he was and what he was supposed to be doing. All the confusion of his personal life didn't come into it. He didn't have to think about being smart or funny or anything else, because out here he wasn't Calum, he was just an officer of Her Majesty's Intelligence Service. He was just a tool, a blunt instrument, a means to an end, etcetera, ad finitum. He was out here to do a job.

And he loved his job.

He had missed being out here, he thought, as Erin signalled to the man at the front of the pack to have everyone check their earpieces. He had missed the slightly sweaty smell of the back of a surveillance van. He had missed the itchy Velcro of the bulletproof vest, digging into his neck as he crouched, legs bent at an uncomfortable angle against a bench seat. He had missed the slightly disconcerting sound of his colleague's breaths in his ears as he checked his earpiece for full signal and tapped it twice in recognition of Tariq's 'testing, please tap-in' request, down the line. He had missed all of it. Even Harry's slightly tyrannical attention to detail, as he pored over their assault plan, suggesting changes, questioning Calum's idea to flank the house from the shadow of the opposing building, in case their mole had setup laser sensors. (Come down here and do it yourself, then, he couldn't help but think. Pompous sod).

At the front of the van, Erin reached forwards and tapped the man on front of her on the shoulder.

"All units go. Charlie team, head around the back in formation, Delta team follow my lead around the front. We move into position in thirty seconds and go in on my mark. Lets go."

Calum's legs threatened to buckle as he hit the ground, jumping out of the back of the vehicle. He had spent so long crouched in the dark that they trembled beneath him, feeling like jelly. He managed to control it, however, staggering upright and taking off after Dimitri who was running soundlessly across the short stretch of gravel towards the building opposite them – a tower block of flats, looming into the orange-dark sky above. Somewhere up there, Calum thought, their mole was sitting watching television or reading a book. Perhaps he was even on his computer, contacting someone to sell his wares. They would catch him, he thought, with satisfaction. They would contain the weapon he was carrying and then take him into custody and make him squeal. Then they would track down all the people he was in contact with and they would stop them too.

When Calum was small, he had dreamed of being a superhero. This was as close as it got, he thought, holding the cool butt of his weapon a little more tightly as he pulled flush against a wall, mirroring Dimitri's actions and waiting for three seconds, before he got the go-ahead signal from up front, to peel out across the courtyard. This was the closest a normal man could get to being a hero. And, despite it all – despite the shitty wake-up calls in the wee small hours were, despite the god-awful coffee from the Grid machine, or how much his mother moaned about him not telling her more about his work – Calum loved what he did. He loved the purpose and the satisfaction. He loved the thrill of the chase. Being a spy was undeniably cool.

Taking the stairs three at a time, he found himself a slightly out-of-breath spy by the time he reached the third floor and slotted in behind Dimitri and two strapping SO19 men who looked like they ate steroids for breakfast. He was going to have to work on his fitness, he thought, as someone up ahead signalled that they were going to break down the door to the mole's flat – number three hundred and thirty six, the door five down from where they were standing. Dimitri, on his right, was barely breathing hard at all and he was completely out of puff. Gotta ease up on the breakfast muffins, he thought, readjusting the grip on his weapon and waiting, with his eye on the target.

"Okay. We are going in in five, four, three..."

Calum didn't hear the last two numbers, because the team started to move on three, pulling themselves into their final positions and raising their weapons and other scanning equipment. In a seamless team, a bomb-disposal man checked the door for wires and another officer – someone from a shadowy department, who reminded Calum of James Bond's Q – slipped in to slide a small sensor under the door frame. It must have registered that there was no danger in blowing the door open, because that was what the third man who approached then proceeded to do. Sticking two small strips of what looked like blu-tack on either side of the locking mechanism, they stood back and gave the hand signal to the team to shield their eyes.

Calum did as he was told, as a loud 'bang' signalled the success of the explosives, further down the hall. By the time he had opened his eyes again and started to move, the first two members of the assault team were through and sweeping the small flat – Q the technical officer disarming the security system that all MI5 safehouses came equipped with. Dimitri motioned over his shoulder and muttered for Calum to follow him in and the pair took the second sweep of the building, hearts in their mouths.

They were very aware that they were walking into the domain of a treasonous officer who wished them nothing more than ill – someone who had managed to arrange the deaths of six highly trained SIS officers, from thousands of miles away, through careful tactical planning. Calum kept a careful eye on where he was walking, his eyes peeled for tripwires or anything else that could harm them. Nothing caught his eye, however, and they swept the small square living room and the bedroom without incident, reconvening with the two SO19 men in the kitchen of the small flat, where they were reporting their own lack of findings to Erin Watts.

"Nothing?" she asked them, as they approached.

Dimitri shook his head.

Calum chose to elaborate. "Laptop in the bedroom, still plugged in, logged into a news page. TV on in the living room and a cup of tea on the side table. It's lukewarm, so he could have been here recently."

"Stepped out?" Dimitri suggested.

Erin shook her head. "No. He was on guard duty. You don't just 'step out' for more biscuits if you're guarding something like he was." She paused, looking around herself. Her eyes fell to the kitchen cupboards. "Have we checked through these?"

The SO19 man shook his head so, at Erin's request, Dimitri and Calum began to shuffle through them. They came up with nothing more exciting than a few tins of old ravioli and beans until they got to the fridge. Pulling the door of that open, Calum was forced to do a double take.

"Erin, you'd better come and take a look at this."

The inside of the fridge was kitted out with a very high-tech looking temperature regulation system. There were three open padded cases, clipped onto the three wire shelves. It looked like some sort of laboratory gone wrong. Or something out of Doctor Who. Looking carefully over the apparatus, Calum saw that the wires coming out of the small display, that was reading temperature and several other mysterious numbers, led to the underside of the small indentations in the case that were to hold (presumably) vials of something. The vials themselves, however, were missing. This sparked panic, deep in Calum's stomach. A military-grade biotech case, inside a fridge, with missing vials and a MI5 safehouse with a missing mole; it was a frightening combination.

"Guess he saw us coming," he murmured, turning to Erin.

She looked every bit as uneasy as he felt. Dimitri, beside her, looked even more anxious.

"I'll take photographs and get Tariq on identifying what everything is," he muttered, disappearing back next door with the two SO19 men. Calum and Erin were left alone.

"I think we should probably get forensics in here to swab everything," she said, after a long moments' silence.

"Do you think we tripped a wire, or something?" Calum asked, looking about himself.

"God knows, Cal... Probably. We were damned careful, but he is a professional. This was never going to be easy." There was another long pause then she continued, with a sigh. "Can you arrange SO19 in the least obtrusive way possible? And coordinate with London Met – tell them we've sorted out our problem and we won't be needing their assistance." She ran one hand over her smoothly tied-back hair, a motion Calum knew was one of nerves. "I've got to call Harry."

"Good luck," he bid her, as he watched her go.

Judging by the mood their boss was in, when he arrived that morning, she was going to need it.

.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12 – Out in the open_

_._

_December 19, 2011_

.

Harry emerged from a three-hour meeting with the DG with more problems buzzing around his head than he had gone in with. Bureaucracy had always brought him out in hives but this was different, he thought, bitterly. This was opposition from within his own ranks. The man who had spent the last few hours metaphorically thrashing him with a metal rod was the man who should, by all accounts, be thanking him for uprooting a dangerous mole. Instead, of course, Harry was just hearing the endless tirade about transparency and responsibility and protocol.

He knew that he should have informed his superior of his actions and of the operation which he had been running. Protocol, however – as he pointed out to said superior, in slightly harsher terms – had not been about to save their asses if the mole had cottoned on to what they were doing and decided to jump ship with everything they had.

"Well, you didn't manage to do much better, did you?" the DG had snipped, in reply. "Do you know what that man is walking around with, Harry, do you?"

Weaponised Bacillus anthracis.

Anthrax.

It was the holy grail of biological terrorism. One gram contained one hundred million lethal doses. It could be dispersed as an aerosol in powder form, or be ingested and retain its lethality. Weaponised strains, like the one they were dealing with here, had more or less a fifty percent fatality rate. It was bad, not quite 'enormous nuclear warhead gone missing and AQ rubbing their hands together gleefully', but bad all the same. A few small vials of powder were harder to find than a whopping great nuke, after all, and the man who carried them was a professional. He had contacts. He could get in touch with all the right people and he would, thought Harry, darkly. He would find a buyer and that buyer would use it to take human lives. And, of course, in a small way, it would be his fault. His fault for going in without knowing absolutely everything about the man's security, his fault for scaring him into running.

He couldn't have bloody done anything else, of course – even the DG knew that, behind his posturing. He had to go in, knowing about the officer's loyalties and what he was in charge of. He could not have alerted anyone because – and he was glad he had heeded Tariq's word about this because their suspicions had been true – Avery Price had been monitoring communications via the landline phones at Thames House, checking for keywords such as his own name, the locations of his house and his safehouse. Harry could not have called the man in charge of Price because that man would have reacted the same way as Harry would have, should someone accuse one of his officers of such a crime. He would go to Price and make his inquiries but by then it would be too late and everything would have been revealed.

They had needed to go in with a tactical assault. It had been their only option. They had made the right call. It had just been unlucky that Tariq had not spotted the tracing program Price had placed down on the Server access computers, in the basement rooms. It had just been unlucky that any access to files on the safehouse he had been lodging in was primed to send a message to his mobile, alerting him of a security breach. It had been unlucky and the bad guy had escaped. That was how it worked, in their business. They had to be lucky all of the time. The bad guys only had to be lucky once. They were overwhelming odds, really, thought Harry, pulling his gloves on and walking down the last few steps of the building, stepping out onto the pavement and hurrying across the street, towards the river. What overwhelming odds to play against, every day.

He walked along the embankment and across Lambeth Bridge, then down towards the Southbank – an aimless wandering as he had nowhere to go. He should get a taxi home, he thought, but he did not want to be in such a terrible mood when he arrived back. His house was not just his own, now. He shared it with one another and the little beagle, of course, who he had grown quite fond of over the last week. He didn't get to go home and brood anymore, Harry thought, with a sigh. Oh well, it was probably good for him. Better than going back and sitting by himself in darkness, with a scotch, anyway. Moving a little faster along the pavement, he looked out across the water and gritted his teeth a little tighter.

Anthrax. Their mole was in possession of Anthrax.

_Fuck_.

The fury did not die as he lengthened his stride so he slowed down again, turning in to lean against the railings and look out over the rippling Thames. It was almost still, tonight. The wind was down and the only waves on the water were those corresponding to the dark currents beneath. Their soft ridges caught the lamplights glowing along each side of the river and shone like pale orange snakes. Constantly moving, constantly slithering downriver towards the estuary at the far end. And then the sea.

Harry leant against the railing, pressing his palms against cold metal – not quite feeling it for the thick warmth of his gloves.

When was the last time he had seen the sea, he wondered. Was it weeks ago, months ago, years? He should go there, sometime. He should take his new guest and Harry the beagle and turn his phone off. Just go. Get up and go. Maybe Ruth would come.

He closed his eyes when she came into his head, trying to calm the rage inside of him. It didn't seem right to pair the thought of her with anger. Ruth was good – Ruth stood for all that was good in his life. She was sweet and kind and good. She was everything that he was not. Light and warmth and beauty. She had come to him, the other morning, and asked to get coffee sometime, when he had a spare moment. She said they needed to breathe, to get away from this place. She had teasingly said it was her job to make him see that. He had given her some excuse, some almost-true excuse that he was too busy to have coffee with her. The truth was he was trying to protect the both of them.

He was protecting himself because he didn't think he was strong enough, to have her let him in just to pull away again. Right now, his life was a mess. Everything seemed to be falling apart around him. Things he had never expected to have to face again were creeping back into his life. Responsibilities he had not even imagined had reared their head. During the course of the last week, he had inherited rather more than a dog and he wasn't sure if he could hack it as the man people expected him to be. They all had such high expectations and, try as hard as he did, Harry just couldn't live up to them, not all the time. He didn't want Ruth to be the one he let down – not again. He was protecting her, as well, by saying 'no' for now.

God, he had wanted to say 'yes', though. He had wanted it more than anything. Maybe he should just tell her, he thought, just risk it and tell her.

He was just considering how he might go about that when a strange feeling, of a presence at his shoulder, caused him to still. Old reflexes reared their head. He felt his body, judging where his weight was distributed, should he need to move fast – either in evasion or defense He tried to remember what he had in his pockets and determine what of it could be used to inflict bodily damage on another person and, if so, how. He determined who could be behind him and what threat they could pose. He had a minor thrill of panic when he thought that it could be their mole, before he ruled that out as a silly indulgence of paranoid fantasy and forced himself to calm.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head, casting a sideways look at whomever was lurking not so far behind him. A short dark coat caught his eye, shielding a slightly unfamiliar figure, but a slightly too familiar face.

Harry let out a heavy breath of air and turned back forwards.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he asked Bethan Shayne, as relief and confusion flooded through him in equal measure.

He was glad she was not a sinister assassin, or someone come to give him further bollocking, for having no regard for protocol, but what the bloody hell _was_ she doing here? Shayne was taking an enormous risk, coming to see him in such proximity to the great building where he worked. What if he had been followed or had people with him? Had she followed him from the doors, he wondered? Had she been lurking nearby Thames House for days, he wondered, watching them track her mole down? Did she know he had eluded them, was that why she was here? It made sense, Harry reminded himself. It would be a hell of a coincidence if she had just picked tonight for a friendly catch-up.

"Hello to you too, Harry," she said softly, moving forwards to mirror his position a foot or so further down the embankment, her palms pressed against the railings. She was not wearing gloves and her fingertips, where Harry glanced down to see them, were pink with cold. She had been outside for a while. "Disappointing night meeting, was it?"

Harry said nothing for a moment, then turned his head slightly, so he could watch her in his peripheral vision.

"More so than usual, yes. I'm sure you've heard all about what's going on, by now." He shot her a slightly nasty look. "My sources tell me that your sources are well informed."

Beside him, Bethan Shayne shifted, slightly, moving infinitesimally closer.

"Oh, don't be sore about it, Harry. You must have known I had people inside of Five. It was never personal and I never intended for him to turn – I vetted him stringently and continually, throughout his contract."

Harry gave a long sigh, closing his eyes momentarily again.

It figured that Bethan Shayne had contracts with her assets. She had always been such an organised little spook.

Finally finding it within himself, he tore his eyes away from the river on front of them and turned to face his old companion fully. What he found was slight unnerving; a strange mixture of the familiar and the old combining. An old friend and a new stranger, in one.

Bethan Shayne had aged well. Despite being a woman well into her fifties, she had managed to hang onto the more rounded cheeks of youth. Her skin was marked with time, a little sunworn in places, a little creased in others such as her eyes, but generally in good condition. Her rather plain but symmetric features marked out a nondescript face, surrounded by somewhat shaggy blonde hair. She still hadn't caught on to the idea of styling, then, noted Harry with a soft fondness inside. She never had been one for doing much more than a swipe of mascara and a scooping back of her hair in a ponytail, even to the most formal of occasions.

"It's been a long time, Beth," he told her.

"Speak for yourself, I've been watching you for days." Her dark grey eyes traveled over him, a sad smile not far below the surface. "The years haven't been kind to you, Harry. You used to be a pretty little thing."

"I suppose I now qualify as neither pretty nor little?"

"No. Tongue's still as sharp as ever, though,"

Harry chose not to reply.

Shayne sighed and looked back down at her hands, playing short-nailed fingertips over one another in an apparent attempt to keep warm.

"I am sorry, about involving you in all of this, you know," she admitted, slightly abashedly, after a long ten seconds had passed. "I never meant for any of it to happen and, once it had, I never meant to drag you into it – of all people. It's just you were the only one I could trust wasn't involved with him and..." she trailed off, looking up to Harry as if for confirmation that she had done the right thing.

To be honest, he didn't have anything for her, in that department. He was as conflicted over what she had done as she was. If he ignored the fact that she shouldn't have had a man inside Five in the first place, he supposed he might have approached things in the same manner which she had. He supposed he might have done the same.

"Why did you come here?" he asked her, after a long minute had passed and she had continued to stare down at her hands in that self-doubting way she had always done so well. "You know I should call this in, right now. I'm conspiring with a traitor just talking to you."

Shayne raised her eyes.

"Perhaps they can give us adjoining cells – hang us side by side on Tower bridge?"

A small smile cracked Harry's lips, despite himself. She had always had a cutting turn of phrase. He forced the smile down, however, as quickly as it had come. He was not here to chat with her, or joke, or reminisce about old times. She was a traitor. She had put a mole inside his bloody Service.

When he did not reply for a while, Shayne sighed and tried again to initiate friendly conversation. "I knew you wouldn't shop me, Harry," she told him, in answer to his previous question. "It's not your style. I wanted to see you, though, to thank you for what you've done."

He frowned at that, surprised. "Thank me?"

"I worked for weeks, trying to find out who Vincent was. You flushed him out in just over one."

"My analysis team did the majority of the work."

"Nonetheless, I am grateful. I know I hardly gave you a choice in the matter, with how I went about things, but I am grateful you put what you did into this. I'm grateful you used the full force of your team. They are quite exceptional, by the way," she added, "I had a look at their files, when I was doing my preliminary vetting. They truly are a testament to their leader."

"Gosh, It's lucky its dark, Beth. I've not blushed so much since Katie Gillespie asked me to the sixth form dance..."

Bethan Shayne chuckled, a laugh which had not changed a jot over the years.

Harry felt suddenly melancholy again.

"Why the hell did you do this?" he asked, with a sigh. "You could have accepted what management had said about your team. You could have come to me, privately, and asked me to look into it. You could have walked away, clean, at the end of all this – helped me catch this mole, as a team, rather than skulking around in the darkness."

Their eyes met. She gave him another sad smile, the laughter vanished from her voice as she replied. "I don't think this is one I get to walk away clean from," she told him, softly. "God, Harry, they're all gone. People I've worked with for years, just vanished..."

Harry held silence. He knew that feeling, that terribly empty, guilty feeling. It was all-consuming. There had been days, after Adam and Zaf had died, after Joanna Portman had died, after Ros had died in particular, that he had considered packing it all in. Retiring. Leaving while he still could. But he never could, he thought, not really. It was like Shayne said. Once you lost enough of them, you didn't get to walk away clean. Their blood, however much they offered it freely, however much their sacrifice had been necessary and heroic, was on his hands. He would always be red with it.

"I'm sorry about your team," he told Shayne, sincerely. "I really am."

"I know." Shayne reached over and rested her elbow against his, a small movement of solidarity.

It brought back strange and sudden memories of Paris in the summer of '78. It had been a hot year. There had been one day when he and Shayne had been stuck on a surveillance detail, following a young man all over the city to try and find out where he was placing a dead-drop. It had been a wild goose chase. Halfway through the day they had realised that he was a decoy, sent out to waste their time. It had been tremendous fun, however. Instead of going back to base, they had continued to wander through the city, stopping to watch artists who made them laugh, buying ice cream on rue Saint-Louis-en-L'ile, eating bread for their dinner on the bank of the seine and getting horribly sunburnt as they walked back to the hotel, afterwards. It was a rare moment of happiness amongst an otherwise tumultuous period in his life.

Juliet had been furious, Harry could remember, (though he could not remember whether it had been the fact that he had skived of for three hours, or the fact that he had skived off in female company, that was bothering her so). Whichever it was, he and Shayne had been split up and put on separate details for the next few weeks. It had made them friends, though. Good friends. They had continued to spend time in each other's company out of work hours – in a platonic fashion, as well, which was unusual for him, at the time. She had been a good friend to him. One of the few he could truly say that of, over the years.

Regarding her across the way, Harry picked out a sudden tightness in her shoulders and forehead. She was close to tears, he realised, as she thought about the ones who she had lost. The years had aged her, she had grown stronger and more resilient – been promoted and weighed down by responsibility and the things she had seen and done – but there was something of that young, deceptively sweet girl he had known still in her. Pressing his elbow back a little into hers, he tilted his head until she met his eyes again.

"You couldn't have known." he offered, in comfort. "The trap he sent you into."

"Ah, yes, the trap that we had made for him," Shayne sighed, the irony heavy and bitter in her voice. "No, you're wrong, Harry. I could have known. His handler, my-," she cut herself off, cleared her throat and continued on. "Nicholas said he was smart. He kept warning me against underestimating him. But I looked at the information he had brought me and I underestimated him, despite what my own officer had told me. I was so distracted at the time, so preoccupied with a million other things – operations I had to get back to, once we'd caught Victor, meetings, paperwork..."

"Christ, do Six still do paperwork? I thought they abolished that along with secrecy, in '94."

Shayne gave only a half-laugh, but cast an appreciative look over at Harry, for his trouble.

They both held themselves in silence for a long moment, before he spoke again.

"Nicholas, your chief technical officer," he began, a little cautiously. He was not sure how she would take this. "Was he the man who was living with you, at the address you gave us?"

Slowly, Shayne nodded.

Harry looked back to the river. He had suspected so. He had looked at the placement of his photo, among the others, and read significance in it. Pairing that with the suspicion that someone else had lived in the small house with her, he had surmised a relationship – perhaps a secret one.

"You were partners?" he asked, after a pause.

Shayne nodded again.

"Partners, lovers... the house I gave you was our bolt hole," she explained, eventually, after silence had weighed on them for half a minute or so. "We bought it under aliases, a year ago in October. I wanted somewhere off the radar, away from the Service's all-seeing eye, somewhere that we could have where nobody would know we existed, where nobody would know what we were, where we were truly invisible – to everyone, even our own team."

Harry nodded. He could understand wanting that.

"You know, I recruited Nicholas, originally," Shayne continued. "I brought him in from the private sector and convinced him to put his skills to fighting for Queen and Country." She pulled a slight face, narrow nose wrinkling across the bridge. "He was seven years younger than me, you know," she glanced over at Harry. "He could do things with a computer which put Vauxhall's cyber-crime unit to shame – your people too, probably. He was a genius, a cut above us battered spooks, but he thought the sun shone out my arse and I let him, because he made me happy."

Harry gave a tiny smile, at her wording, but said nothing. Nothing need be said.

They stood for a time, looking out over the water in silence. Then, Shayne sighed heavily.

"He's gone..." she murmured, directing her words up into the cold night air, her breath rising in mist from her lips. "Now, they're all gone."

Harry tried for a moment to imagine what it would feel like to lose Ruth, someone he loved like Shayne had loved this man, Nicholas – though he supposed it wasn't quite the same. He had never lived with Ruth, or made a life with her. They had never bought a house together and vowed to spend time there, hiding from the world, hiding in each other. Maybe he should suggest, he thought. She was looking at a house in the country, after all. He had noticed a tab open in her system, the other week. Maybe he should suggest her buying it. Her buying it and them living there. Together.

Of course he would have to tell her everything, first, all the things that were going on in his life right now. And after that, who knew if she would still want to flirt with him about coffee and touch his hand... He hoped she would, though. He really hoped she would...

"Did you come to deliver a message to me?" he asked Shayne, once the conversation had drifted into silence for too long to hope to continue.

Next to him, she shook her head, slightly. "You have everything I know about him. You have a top-class team. Use them. Find Vincent. Stop him." She fixed Harry with suddenly much harder grey eyes. "I came here tonight to say thank you and to assure you that I am still doing everything I can, on my end."

Harry could only imagine that her extensive contacts list was getting raided and every favour she was ever owed was being called in. From the look in her eyes, this meant everything to her. And, after learning of the details, he finally understood. This was about more than revenge for a team. This was something much more personal than that. This man he was chasing had taken something precious away from her and she was asking him, as an old friend, to help her take her revenge. That her revenge coincided with stopping a terrorist attack was a boon.

"We'll find him," he assured Shayne, quietly, not quite sure why he was going to let her walk away from him, now, and not call it in – not quite sure if it was the right thing to do, by protocol, but knowing he could not do anything else. His gut told him that last part. Or maybe his heart. He wasn't sure which parts of him were which, these days.

"I know you'll try."

"It was good to see you, to know you're still well."

"As well as can be expected." A moment passed in heavy silence. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer, Harry, but I shouldn't really risk getting seen together. You know the story."

"I know the story," he nodded. Then, struck by an idea, he asked, "Do you remember the old drop we used to have, in Finchley?"

Shayne nodded, frowning slightly.

"Well, if you need to contact me, do so through there." He told her. "It won't be watched."

She nodded again and, for a moment, it looked to Harry like she might lean forwards and hug him. In the end, however, she chose not to, drawing back away from the railing and straightening her coat.

Harry watched her, not quite sure whether he was disappointed by the lack of contact. He was not generally a physical person but there were some nights when it would be nice to feel another person against him. Even if it was only a friend and not the woman he really wanted, with her arms around him.

"I'll see you soon, Harry," Shayne told him, softly. "Once this is all over, we'll talk. Catch up."

She stood a moment longer, then brushed her unruly hair back behind her ears and turned, heading back up the embankment and away from him.

Harry watched her go. The anger had left his body, but he was feeling strangely more melancholy than he had been before their encounter. He missed having a friend around. He missed human contact that was not strictly professional. He was so sick of this, he thought, turning away from the river and Shayne had heading further south, along the bank. He was sick of feeling empty and lonely. Ruth had put out her hand to him, he wasn't going to brush it away again. So what if it failed, he added, to himself. He needed to do something. He couldn't go on like he was, now.

Following the path as it banked away from the river, he slid his hands in his pockets and made a decision. He would tell her, he told himself. He would tell Ruth everything and see if she was still holding out her hand, at the end of it. If she was, then he was going to take it, no matter the circumstances, no matter the risk. He was going to take it and they were going to move forwards. He was done with feeling empty.

.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N – Hello all and apologies for the short break in posting. I have been very busy with family and all of the other holiday madness. Should get the rest of this done and up fairly quickly, however. Not too long to go, now. =)_

_Hope you all continue to read and enjoy. -__Silver._

_Chapter 13 – Secrets_

_._

_December 20, 2011_

.

As per usual, the bus was packed with Christmas shoppers and Christmas tourists, all making their way down to the centre of the city from the residential districts. Ruth was slotting in alongside two very sweet Polish students and a man who lived a couple streets down from her, who seemed committed to telling her his entire life story before they reached their stop. She must have one of those faces, Ruth thought, that made people want to talk to her. Either that or her slightly meek demeanour was not enough to repel them.

Whatever the reason, by the time they approached Westminster and her stop, the man beside her had managed to get right up to the ripe old age of fifteen, at which time he apparently left Harrogate to travel with his insurance salesman father around the country. Spotting her chance for escape, Ruth elected to take the earlier of two stops she could have taken, apologising profusely for having to leave him hanging as she did so. As the man continued to talk to her, saying it was 'no bother' and 'nice meeting her', the analyst slipped off between the two Polish students – leaving them to their fate of being talked to death – and tottered her way to the front of the bus.

It was early, just past six, but already the place was teeming with life. There was no other time of year, she thought, as she scrambled down the wet steps of the bus and onto the slightly icy pavement, that this many people joined her on her morning commute. Usually, it was seven or eight before public transport became as packed as it was this morning. Christmas shopping, she thought again, that would be it. Being a practical type, she had done hers weeks ago – leaving her with ample time to wrap and get them to the right people and, of course, time to doubt their suitability.

The reason she was in so early this morning had nothing to do with the mole they were hunting. It had nothing to do with the vast stack of paperwork that lurked on her desk, although it would be a boon to get a head-start on it, before some other terror came screaming across their radar. Instead, her reason for cramming herself onto the six 'o five bus and suffering in laden with bags ect, was to arrive before Harry and the others. She had chosen today to bring in the small gifts she had bought for the team and wanted to leave them at their desks before they arrived this morning – at which point she would be cunningly out of the room, working down in archives, to avoid the inevitable confrontation that came with Christmas presents, the thanking and the social awkwardness.

Finally managing to navigate her way down the packed street, across the surge of Horseferry road, and in through the door of Thames House, Ruth was pleased to find it relatively calm. There was nobody rushing madly past security, credentials aloft and bulletproof vests in hand. There was nobody yelling at anybody down the phone about bombs or terrorists in Trafalger square. Things were looking like they usually did on a normal, non-disaster filled morning. Smiling, she approached the weekday security man, lifting her badge unnecessarily to greet him.

"Hello," she chatted, as she usually did, whenever she wasn't in too much of a terrible rush to stop. "Quiet morning for you."

The man, whose name was Charlie, gave her a smile in reply.

"Not too busy, Miss, makes up for the rush your lot have been giving us, over the last few days."

Ruth gave a slightly abashed smile. They had indeed been giving security a time of it. In their hunt for the newly escaped mole and his treasure trove of biological weaponry, Erin, Dimitri and Calum had been haring in and out of the building at random times of day – chasing down leads which all turned out to be dead ends, dragging in possible witnesses, who all turned out to be dead useless. Harry had been flitting in and out more or less constantly too, chasing or being chased by politicians, alternately. Though, Ruth thought, he was hardly any cause to bother security. She had been through the back doors with him several times before and they hadn't asked for his credentials on any occasion. He had had been with the Service longer than this building, she reminded herself, with a little smile. He was just accepted here. This was his place.

"Got you something," she told the security man, delving into her handbag for the small bottle-shaped gift bag that she had put specially on the top of her pile.

He looked surprised and pleased.

"You shouldn't have, Ruth, honestly." They knew her all by name. She was in and out of here often enough and, unlike many of her colleagues, she always had a word for them.

"It's no bother," she blushed slightly, handing him the bottle. "Merry Christmas. Pass on my best wishes to your wife and the little boy."

"Will do," his smile widened. "He's old enough to know what Christmas is all about now. It's the first year he's really got excited."

"That's lovely."

"Thanks for the gift," he told her, raising the bag slightly.

"Not at all. Right, I'd best get on."

Turning, she made her way on, into the building, glancing back to see Charlie peek into the top of the gift bag and smile. Good, she thought, stepping into the stairwell and beginning to climb. She had remembered his favourite brand, then. She was good at remembering things like that but she had been so busy, this year, that she doubted herself for a while. All was well, though. Just the others to worry about.

Climbing up to the second floor, she departed from the stairs and headed to the dark internal world of the Grid. Located deep inside the building, it was something like a fortress within a fortress. When threatened, they could lock down and survive on their own recycled air and water supplies, cut off from the world, for three days – a protocol designed to enable them to protect the city in the event of a direct terrorist attack. The walls were reinforced steel and concrete. The glass security doors were six inches thick and double-plated. It was bomb proof. It would take a tank to get through them and Ruth didn't fancy anyone's chances of driving one of those up the Thames House staircase.

Stepping through another layer of security and swiping her badge, she shouldered her bags and wandered onto the Grid, glad to find it empty apart from a few members of night staff, an admin girl, a junior analyst and a brand new field officer called Emily who could be found slogging her guts out here at nearly all hours of the day, most likely on Erin Watts' bidding. Walking around them, Ruth handed them each a token box of sweets and a Christmas card before moving over to the main team's desk, depositing the other gifts she had brought on the appropriate surfaces. She did not bother to turn on her own system when she was done. She would be working downstairs today, in archives, trying to root out something in Avery Price's past which would tell them where he had gone. Price was now her task. Tariq had been assigned to investigating the details they had found on the laptop at his safehouse.

So far, the laptop had provided them a link between Price and a group of men with known connections to a militant Nigerian group. This was their best bet for a possible buyer of the Antrhax so the technical officer, with Calum's help, had been tasked with finding them and bringing them in. Current chatter told them that at least one of the members of the group was already in London and GCHQ had suggested that two others may have crossed the border on fake passports last night. It was an important task, then, though –Ruth could not help but think – not as big a priority as finding the man who currently had the bacterial weapon.

At least he had not been in possession of a way to spread it, she thought, as she adjusted her bag over her shoulder and eyed up Harry's dark office with its drawn blinds. To everyone's enormous relief, the program which C Section had obtained with the Anthrax – software designed for taking down infrastructure and increasing the panic of an outbreak – had been under the guard of another officer on the team when they had moved on Price. He had the ammunition, then, but not the gun, as Calum had so succinctly put it last night. At least they could be thankful of that. To use the Anthrax in a widespread manner, whomever bought it was going to have to also buy a dispersal device. Two purchases would make them twice as easy to find.

It was an optimistic theory, in Ruth's opinion, but they had nothing else to go on for the moment so it was the theory they were running with. Erin was deep in talks with A Section about a possible breach the mole had caused in one of their undercover operations and Harry was... god knew where Harry was, to be honest. Ruth hadn't seen much of him since his meeting with the Home Secretary over the Russians, the other day. He had been around, of course, to deal with the aftermath of the Price/Vincent affair, but he was always flitting too and fro. Gone early, back late, appearing at odd times of the night, a little more ruffled than usual, clearly distracted. Whatever was up with him, it was something personal. She hoped it was nothing too terrible. He had already had so much to deal with. Poor useless bugger.

Walking through, she pushed the door of his office, with intentions of slipping inside and leaving his present too, but stopped short at the sight of a figure, slumped over the desk inside. For a moment, her heart leapt up in worry – terrible visions of assassination and Harry hurt racing into her mind – then she saw him stir slightly and realised that he was just asleep. Warmth crept up, replacing worry. Stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind her, she walked over to the desk, laying down her bag beside the chair he used for visitors and walking round to stand beside him.

He was beautiful, when he slept, she thought, fighting the almost irrepressible urge to reach out and brush a slightly ruffled half-curl of hair back from around his ear. She had never seen him look so relaxed before. She had never had time to observe him at all before, in fact, without the risk of him looking back at her. It was strangely arousing, the intimacy of the moment. It couldn't last, however. She didn't want him to wake up and find her watching him and she knew that, any moment, the others would arrive on the Grid and he wouldn't want to be found sleeping. Reaching gently out, then, she touched his forearm as it lay on the desk.

"Harry?" she murmured his name, softly.

He stirred, then his eyes parted, slightly blearily.

The first glimpse of their hazel-brown made Ruth long to see him wake up properly. In a bed, preferably, and away from this place.

"Hey," she leant down, slightly, rubbing her fingertips against his arm. "You fell asleep."

"Mm." He sat up, leaning back off the desk with a groan. "What time is it?" His voice was rough, lower than usual and almost as stirring to her as seeing his eyes open had been. Sweet overworked Harry. Poor useless bugger.

"It's half six," she told him, picking up an empty tumbler of whiskey from where it had been resting, just at the ends of his fingertips. "Unless you've adopted an even more impressive starting time, I'd say you slept over."

He gave a half-groan, rubbing a hand across his face then looking back up at her. His expression was slightly embarrassed. Feeling the urge to rectify that, Ruth diverted her gaze from his face while she walked the tumbler over to the small cabinet where it was usually kept. Placing it beside its unused counterparts, she corked the open bottle of whiskey and hoped, inwardly, that at least some of the alcohol had evaporated during its vacancy. It would do Harry good to drink less. She said nothing, however, choosing to return to his side once she had finished and lean back against the desk, two feet or so away from him. The distance was a necessity, despite her desire to touch him again. She didn't want to spook him by throwing too much at him so soon after waking up. It wasn't fair.

"Are you okay?" she asked, softly, after he had taken thirty seconds or so to gather himself and to run one hand over his slightly ruffled hair.

"Fine," he shook his head, still looking slightly disorientated, slightly dazed. "I think I was intending to work through, get some paperwork done, but I fell asleep..." He looked around the room again then turned back to Ruth. "I met Shayne last night," he told her, after silence had filled the air for a minute or so.

Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"Bethan Shayne?"

"The very same." Sighing, he leant forwards against the desk again, stretching his fingers against each other. "I went for a walk, after my late-night meeting with the DG. She followed me down to the embankment." Ruth felt a strange twinge of jealousy. The embankment was their place. "She's a mess," Harry continued, looking melancholy. "She wanted to pass along her thanks, though, for what we've been doing with Avery Price."

"I suppose she wasn't quite thankful enough to hand herself over, into your custody?" Ruth asked, just a little bit sarcastically.

Harry glanced up at her, slight reproach in his eyes.

"She was seeing that man," he told her, after it had faded. "The lead technical analyst on her team, Nicholas Benson. He lived with her, in that house."

Ruth nodded. She had thought there might be something between them but she had not been sure. It didn't much change her opinion of Shayne, however. Whatever the ex-SIS officer had been through, whatever her losses, she had still walked into Vauxhall Cross and shot her superior officer in the leg. It was not exactly the most forgivable act and definitely treasonous.

"That couldn't have been easy," she said, eventually, diplomatically.

Across from her, Harry sighed heavily. "No, I don't suppose it was..."

He looked so sad that the uncomfortable shadow of Shayne, which had been hanging over the conversation, slipped away.

"Are you okay?" Ruth asked, the tension leaving her shoulders as she moved a little closer.

"Oh, I'm fine... Really, I am."

"But you're not," she pointed out, softly.

Silence consumed them, for a moment, then he sighed again and lifted his eyes to hers. "I've got a lot happening, right now. It's all very complicated and some of its quite... delicate."

Ruth took a slow breath. They needed to talk and she got the feeling if she tried to push the subject here Harry would never open up to her. Secrecy was just too ingrained in him, in this place. If they wanted to stand a chance of having an honest conversation, they needed to be out of here. Besides, Ruth thought, he had been stuck in here for the last two days straight, in between visits to the Home Office. He was probably dying for a bit of fresh air.

"Would you like to get coffee?" she asked. "My tasks can wait another hour or two until I'm officially on the clock."

Harry watched her cautiously for a moment.

"Are you sure?" he asked, eventually.

Was she sure? Of course not, but she wanted him. She wanted them. She might have no idea what to say, when they eventually got to the cafe, but she knew she wanted to give it a try.

"I'll buy," she told him, coaxingly.

A tiny smile appeared, around his lips. "Well, if you put it that way..."

.

They plodded down to a nearby coffee shop through the quickly busying streets, selecting seats at the back of the room, furthest from the door. Ordering coffee and assorted things to eat, they took their seats and began to approach the awkward bit of having to start conversation.

Sitting across from her boss, Ruth noted that he had removed the tie, which had hung loose around his neck earlier, and that his eyes had grown slightly more awake. Surprising what a brisk walk in the cold air could do for a man, she thought, drawing her eyes over him. If she had been forty-eight hours at work, she would look markedly less composed.

"We've bought enough food to sustain the entire section," he said, as they pulled off coats and gloves, situating himself.

"Probably went a little overboard," Ruth admitted, "but I haven't eaten yet and I'm starving."

"Please, don't hold back on my account."

She smiled, a little, feeling the first brush of nerves run through her stomach – but not unpleasantly.

"I won't," she assured him, softly. She didn't intend to hold back on his account ever again.

She started to help herself to the sandwiches and they sat in relative silence, for a while, sipping at their scolding hot coffees. Sensing that Harry was not quite awake enough to lead the conversation, and finding herself surprisingly able, Ruth chatted away about the cafe, telling him how she had found herself here one rainy afternoon, listing its positive aspects and the few negatives. She told him about the poet she had once met here, one of her favourites from when she had been studying at Oxford. She told him about the bold young waiter who had asked her out every day for the first month, and felt a surge of joy as his eyes had turned just the slightest bit jealous.

"I like a quiet cafe," she summed up, eventually. "It's nice to have somewhere you can nurse a coffee for an hour or so, while you read a book, and not have to worry about being shoved out the door to clear a table."

"Unusual, in this part of town," Harry granted, softly, across the way.

She smiled. "Indeed."

He seemed more relaxed, she noted, watching him across the table. More ready to talk. Sensing an opportunity to move this conversation onto the topic she was interested in, she leant forwards slightly in her chair, fixing him in her gaze. "I did have an ulterior motive in bringing you here," she admitted, causing him to look up from his coffee. "I was hoping we could talk."

Harry nodded, slightly.

"I thought you might be."

He looked so guilty that Ruth felt like reaching out to him. She hadn't meant this as a reprimand. She had meant it as someone who cared, someone who wanted to help.

"You don't have to share anything you don't want to," she pressed quickly, a hint of doubt creeping back in. "And I'm not here to judge you, on anything you do choose to tell." She gave a soft sigh. "I just wanted to say, again, that I'm here, if you do want to talk. You've been distracted, lately, and I thought you might just need to-,"

"-I understand, Ruth," he interrupted softly.

She cut her words short, falling quiet.

Was that a reprimand, she wondered? No, she didn't think so. The words were not clipped and there was still abundant warmth in his eyes. He was not warning her off, then. Perhaps he was about to open up to her. She certainly hoped so.

"I do want to talk," he said softly, after a moment or so had passed between them. "I do _need_ to talk, that is, it's just that I'm..." he drifted off, looking awkward again.

Conflicted, thought Ruth, watching him. That was what he was. He had been hurt so many times, he had hurt others so many times, that he couldn't be sure what he wanted, now. Push forwards, pull away, sit still and wait to see what happened, he wasn't sure. This wasn't easy for him, she thought, watching the soft lines of his forehead darken in a frown. He really was trying. She wanted to let him know that she appreciated that. She wanted to let him know that she was willing to try too.

Swallowing, she reached forwards, slipping her hand over his. Harry looked slightly surprised, but not displeased. After a moment of stillness, perhaps to register that this was in fact happening, his fingers parted, slightly, to allow hers in-between, then closed, holding loosely on.

"I want to listen, Harry," she told him, a little breathlessly, as they touched. "I want to be here, if you want me."

Harry regarded her across the way, hazel eyes dark with pupil.

Ruth could pick out the shape of her own reflection in them.

Speak, she thought, swallowing back sudden flutters of nerves. I know you want this. Just say it. Say it, please...

"I want you here," he murmured back.

Ruth exhaled, heavily – a sigh of relief.

"Good."

"It's just been one hell of a few weeks." He sighed heavily, finally managing to continue with the sentence he had been agonising over, for the past minute. "So much has happened that I'm not sure to where to start..."

"How about at the beginning?" Ruth asked, tightening her thumb against him.

As she made the movement, Harry's fingers shifted and, for a horrible moment, she thought he might be about to draw away. To her delight, however, he simply turned his hand over and slipped his fingers around hers. Biting the inside of her lower lip, to keep the cry of joy inside of her, she let him curl their hands together, revelling in the warmth of him and the moment they should have let happen, so many years ago. This was good. This was perfect. Harry had such wonderful hands.

Across from her, Ruth's boss sighed heavily.

"Okay..." He looked around the cafe, as if searching for inspiration, then his eyes fell upon their joined fingers and his eyes softened slightly. Seemingly calmed, he pushed on. "Well, in that case, I suppose I should start with Wednesday the seventh, when I found out that Graham – my son – was back in rehab."

Ruth watched his face as he stared down at their hands, noting the small lines of tension, the shifting tightness in his brow. Graham, his son, in pain and broken. It was hurting him. However estranged they were, however badly Harry implied they got on, Graham was still his son. There was a deep bond there, a deep love. She understood, if only as a spectator on parenthood.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

"Oh, you know," Harry gave a wry smile. "Full of grievances with the world. I went to visit him last week." Ruth felt him tense. "It didn't go well. We've never got on but we ended up having a spectacular row and I was thrown out by the hospital staff for being a 'destructive influence'."

Destructive influence. Yes, that sounded like Harry.

Ruth ran her index finger along the underside of his thumb in condolence, however, rather than say anything. However unhelpful Harry could be, in an emotionally charged situation, she knew he would be doing his best. He never had anything less than the best of intentions towards his children.

Harry's eyes flickered up to meet hers, warm and hazel, then dropped down again and he continued.

"Anyway, on the ninth, things got spectacularly worse. To add to what was already becoming a nightmare, with Graham, I got a call from the Home Secretary, about a situation that had occurred with a possible Russian Intelligence-sharing deal – the one I was called into a meeting about, the other day."

Ruth nodded, frowning. She had noticed that the tension in Harry's hand increased tenfold. Where was this leading?

"As it turns out," he sighed, avoiding her eyes slightly, "an old friend of mine, with the CIA, had rumbled a terrorist plot to break up the Russian partnership and it involved an old asset of mine, a woman I had been intimately involved with, during my secondment to Six, in Cologne."

So it wasn't just Shayne's assets who went rogue, thought Ruth, trying unsuccessfully to push aside the thought of Harry being intimately involved with someone else.

The thought did not budge, however.

However hard she tried to think about the professional aspect of the situation, however much she tried to form questions about how the CIA had uncovered the plot or what it entailed, her mind kept falling back to Harry and some mysterious Russian asset (who in her mind, of course, looked like a Russian Bond girls). The idea turned her stomach, twisting it awkwardly inside of her. She knew he had had many lovers, over the years. She knew he had been a serial philanderer, in his youth, but it still wasn't easy to hear about it.

Jealousy, simple and potent, rose inside of her in response. Harry was hers. Harry had been hers for years. It was hard to think that other woman had or may still have a claim on him.

"What asset?" she asked, tightening her fingers then loosening them, feeling his hand move underneath hers, fingers pressing shyly.

"Her name was Elena," Harry answered, in nervous tones. "I turned her, using a particularly dirty trick, in the depths of the cold war – or at least I thought I did. As it turned out, she was a spy long before I brought her into my world and was working as a double agent all along. All that I learned from her, all of what she gave me, was to manipulate my trust." He paused. "I was the asset, all along. Everything between us was a lie. _Elena_ was a lie."

Ruth regarded him, stoically.

"How long did you run her?"

"Years," Harry answered, regarding her slightly cautiously. He knew she wasn't going to like where this was heading, Ruth realised, her own caution increasing within her. This was going somewhere bad. And, sure enough... "When I was extracted from Cologne, I was going to bring her with me," Harry admitted. "She had convinced me that she wanted to leave her husband and take her son to be raised in England."

Ruth felt a slightly sinking feeling in her stomach.

"...her son?"

"Yes." Harry threw her a deeply uneasy look. There was a slight lilt to his voice, a plea for her to hear him out and not run away. "Sasha," he elaborated, eventually. "The boy's name was Sasha. Elena told me that I was the father and," he paused, minutely, then soldiered on, "the dates could have worked out. We had been involved with each other for long enough to make it plausible and," he winced, "I trusted her. I believed her story that the boy was mine for nearly thirty years."

Ruth swallowed.

Sasha. Harry's son.

The words had hit her like a bombshell. Her stomach grow cooler inside at the thought of it. Harry had thought he had a son for thirty years, a boy by a fling with an asset. This, in itself, did not bother her unduly. He already had grown children, after all. She accepted a complicated family history as part of who he was. But for him to have believed he had another child and never told her... it was frightening. What else would she find out, she wondered, if she forced all the truths from his past? What other skeletons would she uncover?

"And was he yours?" she asked, after a long silence.

"No, I found that out, last week. Elena lied, to manipulate me. We were all pawns in her game."

_Elena_.

Ruth swallowed in discomfort. He pronounced her name with accurate inflection. It shouldn't have surprised her really, she thought. Harry spoke decent Russian, though not as well as herself. It was likely he had first approached his asset, in her native tongue. Perhaps he had turned her that way too. Had they conversed that way when they grew closer, thought, she wondered? Had whispered in Russian when they-, Ruth stopped herself short, quickly. She didn't want to think of that. She didn't want to think of Harry with another woman, Harry's skin against Elena's, Harry shuddering to a halt against her body, making some noise in the back of his throat – she knew he would make some noise, she just knew it. God, she couldn't do this, she couldn't hold his hand seeing these things inside her head. She just couldn't. Shit... shit fuck shit!

Across the way, Harry tilted his head, catching her eye.

"Ruth?" he asked, softly concerned.

"It's nothing." She pulled a tight humourless smile, resisting the urge to pull her hand back from his. "I'm just being silly."

"You're not silly," he told her back, calmly, with a little shake of his head. "I didn't expect this to be easy to hear."

She let out a soft wry 'huff' of laughter. "...good."

His jaw tense and he looked down, eyes desperately sad.

"I'm sorry, Ruth. It wasn't..." he cleared his throat and sighed again, short of words. Eventually, after a very long pause, he forced himself to start again. "Whatever you're thinking about me right now," he said, in a deeply sheepish tone, "you're probably right. I'm not proud of that part of my life, but you did say you wanted to know what was going on with me and I don't want to lie to you."

A moment passed, in intensely awkward silence. For a few breaths, Ruth was not sure if she wanted to listen any longer. The thought of the secrets was oppressive. But, a little voice whispered to her, it was part of what they were. There were always going to be secrets. And she hardly told him everything about herself, did she? She had never told him about her life on Cyprus, for example; how she and George had met and she had learned to love him, in a way; how she had cared for Nico but not wanted to have another child with his father; how she had lied to George about it and said that they were trying when she was secretly on the pill. She had not told Harry all the stories of _her_ past, the little things she was ashamed of. And he was making an effort now, she pointed out, to herself. He was telling her now.

Letting out a steadying breath, Ruth adjusted her hand slightly inside Harry's. She was not stroking his fingers any longer but, she had decided, she did not want to withdraw completely from his touch. What he had said earlier was right. She had said she wanted to know what was going on and she should hear him out. Jealousy and the rest of it could be put aside, for the moment. She had said she wasn't going to judge. And besides, the tiny logical whisper in the back of her head murmured, this was part of who they were. They were made of secrets, she and Harry.

"What happened to her?" she asked, swallowing back her discomfort, "your double-agent asset?"

"I believe she's luxuriating in a FSB holding cell, somewhere, courtesy of her husband."

Ruth glanced up, catching the slight unease in Harry's eyes.

"Her husband?"

"Ilya Gavrik."

"The politician?"

"Indeed. He was-,"

"-your counterpart in Cologne," Ruth finished for him, "back when he worked for the KGB."

"Yes." Harry looked slightly impressed that she had remembered.

"Bloody hell, Harry..." Ruth shook her head, exasperation spilling in and, strangely, overtaking her earlier awkwardness and unease. Harry had recruited and slept with the wife of his counterpart – a man internationally renowned for his horrific torture of captured spies. How typically overconfident. "You know," she told him, in complete disbelief, "sometimes, I cannot believe that you have made it this long."

Harry raised an eyebrow, looking slightly confused.

"...Why?" she asked, echoing the unsaid question in his eyes. "You were shagging your Ilya Gavrik's wife!" Realising she was speaking quite loudly and quite possibly would start to offend the other patrons of the cafe, Ruth hastily lowered her tone. "In what sphere of logic did you think that was a good idea?"

Harry stared back at her, looking extremely sheepish.

Oddly enough, however, her outburst had had the effect of clearing the air between them. As they sat watching each other, Ruth still felt shocked and a little angry, to find out what he had withheld from her, Harry still looking wracked with shame, but both were less tense than they had been a few moments before. Perhaps it was simply the effect of finally venting their frustration, rather than retreating into brooding silence like they were used to.

"I was in my twenties and pumped on adrenaline and testosterone," Harry eventually murmured, after a while. "I'm afraid logic didn't play a huge part in my reasoning strategy."

"Obviously," Ruth murmured back.

She felt his fingers tighten around the back of her hand and any remaining animosity she held began to drain slowly away. He had been so young, back then. Cologne had been a lifetime ago, really. Just think of the things she had done in her mid-twenties, she told herself, just imagine if they came back to haunt her. And besides, she told herself, he was here, now, telling her about it. He had never wanted to hurt her and he had been the one wronged, after all. He had been the one tricked. This Elena Gavrik had used him, hurt him.

"You can be a complete fool, sometimes," she muttered anyway, her tone more affectionate than she had planned.

Harry looked slightly worried, as if it might be an interlude into some form of exit strategy but, as she held her silence afterwards, he relaxed a little. His thumb softly rubbed the back of her hand.

Ruth sighed.

"I suppose this is why you've been missing from the Grid, this past week, and locked away in your office whenever you were there?" she started, eventually, after the silence between them had become less awkward and more comfortable.

"Partly, although I cannot solely attest my sleepless nights to Elena and past mistakes."

Ruth raised an eyebrow. There was more? Was the inclusion of 'past' in that phrase to imply that he was also worrying about current mistakes?

"Something about the intelligence-sharing deal Ilya Gavrik was pedalling?" she prompted, after he had fallen silent for half a minute or so.

"No, that's dead in the water." Harry shook his head, breathing heavily out. "This is something else," he continued. His eyes half closed, seemingly with exhaustion. Fringed in feathery fair lashes, they were beautiful. Softly hazel. Tired and warm. And he looked terribly sad.

"Another thing to add to the world's worst week?" she asked, softly, pity rising within her.

"Indeed. Nine days ago, my solicitor got in contact to inform me that Beatrice McKellen, Fiona Carter's mother, died from complications arising from throat cancer." He sighed. "With his grandfather in a care home, suffering from Alzheimer's, Wes Carter was left in the care of the state."

Ruth felt suddenly very glad that their hands were wrapped in one another. As she tightened her fingers around Harry's, the point of contact was all that kept her already overly-emotional eyes from filling up with tears. Wes Carter, alone... after all that had happened it seemed so utterly cruel of the world. Had he not lost enough?

"God, that's terrible, Harry," she whispered. "How old is he, ten?"

"Just turned eleven, a few days before his grandmother passed."

"How could this happen?" she whispered, her chest hurting a little at the thought of the child, who had been so very loved by Fiona and Adam, alone in the world. "It's so monumentally unfair..." Was he in some great, white, soulless care centre, she wondered, or staying with temporary foster parents who were busy they didn't have the time for him? He didn't even have an extended family like Nico, she reminded herself. He had no one to comfort him in this time of grief. He would be all alone. "What's going to happen to him?" she asked, in a very small voice.

Harry tightened his fingers against her thumb.

"Well," he sighed, "for the last week or so, he's been staying with me."

.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14 – Planes, trains and automobile bombs_

_._

_December 20, 2011_

.

The relief Harry felt, as he finally told Ruth everything that was going on with Graham and the Gavriks and Wes, was glorious. It was like having ninety percent of the weight of his woes lifted from his shoulders. The tension which had gripped his body, for the last few weeks, all of the aching in his muscles and the pain in his head, began to fade away. She was healing, he thought, eyes washing over her as she sat quietly across the table. She was everything healing and good in the world and opening his darkness to her light was calming him through. It was so good to talk.

Sitting at the table in the small cafe, they quietly talked through all of the circumstances of Wes's coming into his life. Harry expressed his disbelief that Adam could have put him next, after his in-laws as Wes's guardian. Ruth had pointed out that, neither Fiona nor Adam having any siblings, they didn't really have anyone else. And they trusted him besides.

"I just don't know if I can provide what he needs, right now," Harry admitted, wrapping his hands around his now lukewarm mug of coffee. Ruth had relinquished his hand about five minutes earlier, to assist the young woman who had come to clear their table. He regretted the loss of her touch but appreciated that she had held on for so long, remained in contact with him through the harsh truths about Elena and Sasha Gavrik. It was nice to know that she could hear some of the worst of him and not run away. "How do I help him become the man his father would have wanted?" He continued to ask her, needing not only her support but her advice now. (It was so nice to have someone to ask the advice of, after so many days of wondering these questions to himself). "How do I teach him anything at all, in fact? I'm hardly renowned for my parenting skills."

"He doesn't need you to teach him," Ruth said softly back. "He just needs you to enable him to learn things himself. Be there. That's all." She regarded him strangely for a moment and Harry wondered whether she was thinking of what sort of father he would have made, for children of their own.

He had wondered it too, once or twice, over the years. It had never really been an option for them, given circumstance and timing, but he did occasionally wonder what would have happened between them had they met five or ten years earlier. Would she have been bolder and less damaged by the world? Would he have chased her less reservedly, been successful and made another family? Maybe, he thought. Maybe not. Whatever might have been, he didn't regret what they were, now. He wouldn't change Ruth for anything in the world. Still, it would find it pleasant to know that she wondered about the same things he did – that she saw a physical reality in them and not just some sort of metaphorical idea.

"I just hope I can be there for him." Harry admitted to her, sighing across the table between them. "God knows I failed often enough at that with my own two."

"Perhaps this is your second chance," Ruth had told him, softly, eyes warm and blue. "Perhaps this is an opportunity to put things right."

Harry nodded softly.

Perhaps it was.

.

They sat for a bit longer, after that, talking through the situation. Harry told Ruth about Wes still attending boarding school and that he visited his granddad in hospital every Saturday. He only really had him on Sundays, he explained, and Saturday afternoons – which the boy spent mostly with the beagle in the garden, getting covered in as much mud as was physically possible. It seemed an almost plausible situation for him to handle, he posed, cautiously. He could do one and a half days a week, after all, couldn't he?

Quietly, sweetly, Ruth offered to help if he ever needed it. Politely, Harry thanked her and said that would be wonderful. He told her that Wes still remembered her, from her having babysat for Adam and Fiona, all those years ago.

"I made him cake," Ruth remembered, smiling at the thought of it. "I suppose what they say about the way to a man's heart stands true, for all age groups."

"I suppose it does," Harry had chuckled back.

"I'm glad you have him, Harry," Ruth had sighed, after that. "It's so much better he's with someone that he knows."

Harry had nodded.

"He said that to me, on the first night I brought him back. Said he was glad not to be with some stranger." Harry smiled, at the memory. Little Wes's face as he looked up at him, so sincere and old beyond his years. "I saw him routinely, since his father died. Tried to make it a fortnightly thing. Took him to the dogs, or to the flicks."

Ruth gave a tiny breath of a laugh and Harry traced it back to the use of an outdated word for the cinema. He gave her a tiny twitch of his mouth, feeling a little embarrassed and, at the same time, a little pleased. He might be old-fashioned but it was warmth in her eyes, not mocking. She was looking at him with love. The hand that she had wrapped around his was touching him tenderly. It was the longest they had ever gone, he thought, without breaking contact. It was lovely, just to feel her alive against him, for once, rather than watching her walking away.

As she stroked her index finger along his thumb, they shared a moment, wondering whether this would bring them closer – wondering whether a child dependant on him and fond of her could make them something of a family. Then, Harry's phone rang, shattering the illusion of togetherness and they were thrown harshly back into reality. Throwing Ruth an apologetic glance, Harry slipped his hand free of hers and dug for the handset in his pocket.

Calum Reid was on the other end of the line.

"Morning boss," the younger officer greeted, cheerfully – a tad too cheerfully, in Harry's opinion. "Got some bad news for you, I'm afraid."

Harry sighed slightly. More?

"What's happening?"

"Tariq pulled information from the laptop in Avery Price's safehouse. Two of the chaps pictured there popped up in our security threat briefing this morning, from Six. Three men come in on a ferry last night, around nine o' clock, from Calais. French Intelligence have sent us CCTV footage of them boarding the ferry on their end and running them through facial analysis has yielded a eighty nine percent match. We have two unnamed men and Bassam Saidani, nephew of Gabir Saidani, who made contact with a man on our radar called Sami Hamuy."

"The name Gabir Saidani rings a bell," Harry murmured, thoughtfully. "Algerian?"

"Correct." Calum audibly shifted around his desk. Then Harry heard the chair sliding back across the floor and footsteps. Paper rustled then he cleared his throat. "Member of a group who think AQ don't focus on human casualties enough. Rounded up by our American cousins in two thousand and six, on a commuter train, with ten pounds of Semtex strapped to his chest. Luckily, his detonator failed before he had the chance to right the wrongs he saw in the world."

"Yes, charming fellow if I remember correctly."

"Killed a guard in an escape attempt a year later, with a garrotte made of his own chest hair."

Harry frowned. "I believe it was made of wound fabric."

"Yes, something of that ilk... Anyway," Calum continued, "we managed to trace his young nephew, Bassam, the two other men and Sami Hamuy to a flat in Croydon, thanks to some luck with CCTV. Saidani then departed from the others and met with a bloke who was on our radar for buying suspicious quantities of electrical equipment, in July. Saidani stayed a couple of minutes and then headed off again. He drove back to the Croydon flat, picked up the two men he had come into the country with, and we lost him in traffic as he headed into suburbia."

"How did that happen?" Harry growled.

"Not surveillance's fault. They did everything they could but Saidani switched cars in a car lot and we were unlucky with the lights." Calum cleared his throat. "We still have Sami Hamuy in our sights, however. We're hoping he takes us somewhere."

Harry sighed.

"Any other leads?"

"Two possible tip-offs from assets in the field. We're running them down as we speak. We could do with Ruth, actually," he added, clearly a little hesitant to mention the subject of their late analyst, "...but she's off the Grid at the moment."

Harry raised his eyes to Ruth, who was watching him with interest, across the table.

"I'll bring her in," he told Calum, after a moments' pause. He knew that Ruth would not naturally admit to being out, alone, with him and normally he would strive to do the same to please her, but he was feeling a little braver today. He wanted to make a show of interest, as she had done for him. Also, he was a little curious how far he could push this new intimacy. She wanted to move forwards, clearly, so he was fairly sure it was okay to reveal to the team that they were spending time together, off the Grid. Was it okay to let them know they were spending time in cosy coffee dates, however? How much was he supposed to let on? And how much was he supposed to push? Could he invite her over sometime, for dinner, for example? Could he invite her to stay over? Cautioning himself for getting ahead of himself, Harry turned his attention back to the phone. "I can clear her schedule to work on the task," he told Calum.

"Good," his subordinate responded, kindly not asking why Ruth was with Harry at such an early hour of the morning. "And the sooner you're here the better. Erin's starting to get antsy."

"ETA ten minutes," Harry told him.

"Excellent. See you then."

Lowering the phone from his ear, Harry pressed the screen with his thumb, ending the call.

Across the table, Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"All gone to the dogs already, has it?" she asked.

Harry gave a wry smile.

He knew what she meant by 'already'. Though they had been together, talking, for almost an hour, it was only quarter to eight in the morning. Hellish time to have been at work for several hours already. Hellish circumstances to be working in.

"To paraphrase in Mr Reid's crude vernacular," he told her, reaching behind him and sliding his phone back into his coat pocket, "bad people want to kill us."

Ruth pulled a slight face. "Someone we know or someone new?"

"Something who fits into both categories, actually," Harry admitted. "A relatively unknown terrorist cell, with ties to Avery Price and AQ."

"Do we think Price sold the Anthrax to them?" Ruth asked, frowning.

Harry shrugged.

"Possible. None of these men are linked to groups who specialise in biological warfare, however, and we have yet to see any further communication between them and Price – apart from the fact that he had photographs of them on file on his laptop. I'm going to suppose that their connection to him was for another reason. He was selling all sorts of intelligence, we have to remember. The Anthrax is a relatively recent development. He could have sold them target movements, or locations."

And if he hadn't sold the anthrax already, Harry thought (and they hadn't seen any activity to suggest he had) then it was likely he wasn't going to for a long time. And that was bad news.

Keeping the Anthrax bacteria and lying low meant that Price could ride out the state of high-alert that the Security Services were in, right now. He could wait until the guards were down and nobody was looking and hopefully shift the weapon in a low-risk, high-financial-yield manner. Unless he made a mistake, during the sale or transit – or they got lucky and one of their assets caught wind of it – they wouldn't see the Anthrax bacteria again until it was used against them.

Harry couldn't help perversely hoping that Price was already in the process of selling the weapon, or had sold it to these people. At least they had feelers in all of the right places, right now. They would catch wind of it. Hopefully Price would get nervous and want rid. Hopefully they would catch a break or he would make a mistake and they would manage to intercept it. Hopefully this would all go to plan – as would the business with these terrorists who Price may or may not have been involved with.

"So, these gentlemen might have nothing to do with the Anthrax?" Ruth asked.

"Perhaps not," Harry answered, "but their associates have experience with incendiary bombs and we have had separate chatter, this morning, about a strike near a central London bank."

"So we go in."

"So we go in."

A very long silence passed, as they regarded each other. She was really very beautiful, thought Harry, mildly. Big blue eyes, smooth milky skin, dark hair. He had never wanted to press up against another human being and completely surrender himself more.

"Shall we?" he asked, nodding towards the door.

It was time to go. Time to leave this place, where they had sat and lost themselves in each other for over an hour, time to leave who they were, here, and to become the people they had to be at work – pull on the masks. He found the idea strangely harder to face than he would have done, just a few months ago.

"Yes," she said.

He stood and pulled on his coat, leading the way towards the door.

.

They arrived back at the building to find D Section in a rush of activity. Ruth split immediately away from Harry's side, heading through to the briefing room where Tariq and Calum had set up their base, working on a profile for the men who had come across their systems that morning. Harry watched her go for a minute before heading through towards his office. Erin Watts could be seen sitting in there, her back facing him, her hand moving swiftly across a piece of paper. Oh goody, he thought, watching. Something serious enough to get Erin scribbling notes – she only did that if it was a grade 8 emergency (on the Ros Myers scale of disaster). Steeling himself, Harry strode through.

Erin lifted her head as he entered but did not speak. A closer look told Harry that she held a phone, in the hand he had assumed was simply cradling her head. A closer listen told him that the noise on the other end of the line was hold music.

"Thrilling stuff?" he asked.

She gave a very intense stare in reply.

Harry made his way over to his desk and took a seat, giving a gruff noise of irritation as he felt his body ache in all the places stressed by sitting in that position overnight. He shouldn't have let himself bloody fall asleep, he thought, leaning over and switching his system on, watching the icons light until it was booted and the login screen appeared. He should have set an alarm at one and gone bloody home. At least then he would have had a few hours of good sleep. And he would have had a chance to see Wes, in the morning. He wouldn't have had the joy of being woken up by Ruth's soft hand on his arm, however, he reminded himself – nor had the pleasure of those soft hands against his, in the cafe, while they talked. Looking at the bigger picture, it was probably a good thing he had slept here and his body was stiff and aching.

Tapping in his login and clearance codes, he siphoned off the top layer of his inbox and glanced through it as Erin's hold music ended. There was nothing there relating to Price but there were profiles of the men Calum had been talking about, on the phone, added as an attachment to a small note – presumably from his most sarcastic employee – reading 'our boys'. Clicking them open, Harry perused the details while Erin argued on the phone. By the content of the one-ended conversation that ensued, the person on the other end of the line was someone from Special Branch. Presumably this was her sorting out tactical to follow Sami Hamuy, then, thought Harry.

It took her a minute or so to finish up whatever it was and, when she had, she lay down the phone on the table and let out a hefty sigh.

"Things are going poorly," she stated, half turning her head to face him. She looked almost as weary as himself. Harry knew that her daughter, Rosie, was ill with the flu. She had probably been up half the night looking after her, before coming in at just past six this morning. Single mother of a young child, working full-time for MI5; he could take a leaf out of her book, he thought. He would have to as well, soon, if Wes was to be staying with him.

_How on earth was he going to make this work..?_

"What news do we have?" he asked.

"Not much more than what Calum knew, when he called you." She gave another sigh. "The man our Saidani went to see is called Omar Djaout. He designs trigger mechanisms."

"For?"

"Planes, trains and automobiles, but his specialist area is the last. Car bombs."

"Big, fiery petrol bombs or small, powdery dirty bombs?" asked Harry.

"The former kind. And, as our four terrorists have been associated with splinter cell groups involved in train and bus bombings, I think that's what we should focus on. Backpack attacks – probably on public transport. I can't see any of them being involved in a plot to disperse Anthrax. I don't think that is how they are involved with our Mr Price."

Harry nodded to himself. That was the conclusion he had reached, too. From his short look at the material they had, none of the terrorists seemed to fit the profile of a biological weapon attacker. They were bombers, not chemists and, by the many times they had been caught on CCTV since reaching British shores, not masterminds. They were still a threat, however. They still put lives at risk and, for that reason, Harry's team would track them down and lock them up. They were the stop-guard against those who wished the country ill. They protected and defended this city.

"Calum mentioned two possible leads earlier, on the phone."

"One turned out to be nothing, the other is a house which we have confirmed as being in the name of Sami Hamuy's mother." Erin slid her tablet computer across his desk, open to a blueprint of the house and shots of the surrounding street. "Surveillance followed him there, just ten minutes ago. I've put three officers across the road in an un-rented flat and they're keeping an eye on things, reporting back to Tariq every five minutes-,"

As if in response to this statement, there was a knock on the door and the young technical officer came bursting through, without waiting for a reply.

"We have four backpacks delivered to the Hamuy house by an unknown courier. Sami Hamuy answered the door and called back to someone so surveillance used thermal to have a look around inside. It seems there are four men in the front room, including Hamuy, and they look like they're praying." Tariq took a heavy breath. "Could be pre-attack."

"Shit," muttered Erin.

Shit, thought Harry.

"How did they get in, without us seeing?" he asked Erin.

She shook her head. "We've only known about this house for under an hour. Saidani could have taken them straight there from the Croydon house. His splitting up and then meeting Hamuy again could simply have been a security measure, in case one of them were caught. They seem to be the ones orchestrating this attack."

Harry sighed.

A few beats of silence passed. Then,

"Okay," he said out loud, nodding as a plan formulated inside his head, coming naturally after years of practice at sitting in this situation. "Lets put a small team on the trigger-maker's house, just in case he has any further role to play in this. Calum will lead them. You and Dimitri," he said, nodding to Erin, "get SO19, bomb squad and those men with masks the government employs, just in case they have got anything that even _resembles_ a biological weapon. Cordon off two perimeters – one loose one of several streets, one airtight at four hundred metres. We need to try and ascertain whether or not they have the Anthrax before we move in but, if we can't, we're going to have to have SO19 evacuate the area. Everyone wears full protective gear," he added, firmly, "understand?"

"Yes, Harry." Erin nodded. "I'll get on it."

She stood and left the room.

Harry turned to the younger officer. "Tariq," he said, a little more calmly because Tariq was the member of his team most likely to panic if he heard fear in his superior's voice. "I need you to tell Ruth to comb through everything we, Six and GCHQ have about missing explosives, components, etcetera. I need information on anything that could have been sold and used in a backpack bomb. Meanwhile, I need you to try and pinpoint possible targets, prioritise them in order of likeliness and do some damage estimates for each. Send all of this to me when you're done – I'm going to run up to the DG's office. He has the Home Secretary in with him, on a meeting. They're going to need to hear about this and inform the Health Protection Agency."

And, no doubt, the HPA would want to ride in on a white stallion, Harry thought, nerves budding. Hopefully they could coordinate this so that the terrorists did not have time to loose their bombs before Erin and the others secured them. In the event of a biological weapon release, there was little hope of fully containing it in such cramped living conditions. People would die.

"I'll get on it," Tariq nodded and trotted quickly off.

Clicking to lock his system, Harry did the same, but in the direction of the main body of Thames House instead of back to the Grid.

.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15 – Decoy_

_._

_December 20, 2011_

.

There was a bomb about to go off, somewhere in London. The bomb may or may not contain the Anthrax which had been stolen by Avery Price from the MI5 safehouse. The whole of Harry Pearce's team was mobilised, heading to their separate tasks. Tariq was holed up in his little technical suite, tapping madly at a computer and talking to Ruth on the phone, alternately. Ruth was up to her ears in about five screens, having commandeered Erin and Dimitri's systems to deal with the vast amount of cross searches she was running. Erin and Dimitri, for their troubles, were suited and masked and heading across town in a van with bomb disposal, special operation tactical assault, and three gentlemen from HPA's urgent response unit, who had gadgets that Calum could only dream of. And Calum... Calum was sitting in the back of a surveillance van, on Colman and Nottingham, beside a junior field agent who smelt slightly of egg and watercress sandwich.

He was pissed off. Not only at the situation but at Harry who had deemed him unworthy enough not to be sent along with Erin and Dimitri – or at least worthy enough to assist Tariq and Ruth in their essential map of missing explosives and bomb-making equipment, on the Grid. It seemed that everyone had their role in this department except for him. He was the man they sent on errands, who fetched coffee between shifts, who got tagged onto whatever detail needed an extra body, to make up numbers. He was extra boy and he was tired of being extra boy. He was sick of being relegated to whatever place Harry thought he should be on that day.

"We need to cover our bases," Harry had said, when Calum had expressed his irritation at his task.

Cover their asses was more likely. Harry just wanted to say he had one of his core team on the ground there, just in case it ever came back to haunt him. For a man Calum had thought was not a bureaucrat, he certainly was beginning to look a lot like on. He had admired this man, Calum thought darkly, leaning against the stained, torn leather backing of the surveillance van's passenger seat. He had wanted to be him, in ten years time. He had spent half of his career trying to get into this department and, now that he was here, he was woefully un-enthralled.

He was leaving, he decided, balling one hand around the other in a vain attempt to warm them up. (The cold December air was freezing, even at nearly noon, and the heating in the old van was barely functional at the best of times). He was going to draft his resignation when he got back – request a transfer to another department. Perhaps a counterterrorism branch in Northern Ireland, or abroad somewhere. Hell, he thought, darkly, he could even request secondment to Six. That would really set Harry's teeth on edge.

Overlooked. Underappreciated.

Calum set his jaw, staring avidly out the window, angry eyes fixed on the door of the man they were watching. Omar Djaout. A small man, even in the criminal underworld. He worked in an electronic components store and only came across their radar when he had to account for a strange shipment into his shop sometime last year. A very large shipment of a type of electrical wire which had cropped up in bomb triggers they had been finding in the area. In all likelihood, this could have been coincidence. He did own an electronics shop, after all, and buying electrical wire and motherboards came with the job. Routine investigation had been carried out, however, and a closer look at his other purchases that year had yielded something far more interesting.

He always ordered through a different member of staff, it all came in separately, but – when you put items of his stock list together – you ended up with all the components needed to make a bomb casing and trigger device. MI5 had been watching him ever since.

A blast of wind outside rattled the windows of the old van and the man beside Calum shivered and made some irritatingly cheerful crack about the time of year. Calum nodded but didn't really listen. He wasn't in a festive spirit, this year. Despite the Christmas lights and the few dustings of snow and frost they had received, he was finding it hard to be joyous and merry. He pulled on a good front around Ruth and the others on the team, because he liked being the guy they came to talk to and because he thought Ruth, for one, had enough misery in her life without him adding to it. He was pretty down, though. This job hadn't been everything he had hoped it would be. He had given up a personal life to chase a career and the career was dead-ending in the back of a surveillance van. Had he made a mistake in joining D, he wondered, in pressing Erin to take him on behind Sir Harry's back? Was the way he had joined the reason Harry was sticking him on these useless jobs?

His phone rang, in his pocket, distracting him from the thoughts that swirled on repeat in his head. Raising it to his ear, Calum pressed 'answer' and frowned at the sound of Ruth's voice coming in over the speakers.

"Hey," the analyst greeted him, in a slightly breathless voice. She had been running madly all over the Grid, Calum was willing to bed. Overworked and underpaid. Overlooked and underappreciated. He and Ruth made a fine pair. Harry should have kept him on site to help her. She sounded run off her feet. Unlike himself, however, she didn't sound grudging about it. She was more mature than that. "Can I put you on comms, to listen into Erin and Dimitri's assault team?" she asked. "Surveillance has confirmed that four men are still inside the house. No sightlines on any of them and they have the blinds drawn to deny us an eyeball. Teams Alpha and Charlie are moving into position. I can handle them but I need someone else to keep an eye on the HPA comms – just in case they get into any trouble, outside."

Just in case. He was the 'just in case' man.

"Sure," Calum sighed, digging around in his bag for the required headset and plugging it into his phone. "Beam me up, Scottie."

Ruth muttered something vaguely humorous in reply and patched him through. In a moment, Calum was linked up via his earpiece to the field and by his phone, to Ruth. The sound of both of them at once, plus the noise of the man in the next seat to him, crunching away on a bag of crisps, made the officer feel slightly sick for a moment. After ten seconds, however, the balance in his ear righted itself and the nausea disappeared. Giving a soft sigh, he muted his end of the HPA line and checked back in, with Ruth.

She was still talking in an undertone to someone else so he waited until she was done before speaking.

"How's it looking?" he asked, knowing that conversation was not necessary, but too curious about what was going on, out in the real world, to resist.

"Nothing yet," Ruth replied, in clipped tones. "They have surround on Hamuy's house. Surveillance thermal tells us that they are still in the front room but they are gathered around each other as if they are exchanging the backpacks. They could be suiting up and Harry wants us to move in before they have time to arm the bombs."

"Erin and Dimitri on site?"

"Yes."

"Need any more hands?" he asked, knowing his question was in vain, as he was on the other side of the city. It would take a jetpack to get him there in under thirty minutes, he thought, with a sigh.

Sure enough.

"They're fine, Cal, just sit tight..." There was a pause, then Calum heard Ruth turn fully towards his mic and soften her tone, slightly. "Probably a good thing you're not there, to be honest," she said, in what she obviously thought was a comforting voice. "Running a tactical assault in a full protection gear sounds awful."

He smiled a little, despite himself.

Ruth. Sweet Ruth. Harry didn't deserve her.

"It'd probably ruin my hair," he agreed, to please her, and heard her smile down the line. "I'll be on comms if you need me," he added, releasing her back to her duties without guilt.

She signed off.

Calum turned his attention back out the window, at Omar Djaout's bedraggled semi-detached.

.

The assault on Sami Hamuy's house sounded like a badly scripted action film. Sitting in the passenger seat of the surveillance van, Calum listened with rapt attention, trying to pick out voices that he recognised from amongst the throng. Erin's was fairly easy to pin-point. She was running the operation for assault team Charlie. Charlie-three, he thought, might be Dimitri, in with three men from SO19 and a HPA urgent-response man. Their voices were all muffled, however, echoey within their protective masks.

Frowning, Calum listened as they made their way out of the cars and across the short distance of tarmac. He listened as they climbed the steps and headed up to the door of the flat. He listened as they arranged themselves around the door and window and burst in, their shouts of 'hands up' and 'weapons down' accompanied by the noise of smashing glass and harsh panting underneath the suits. Charlie-three was injured making his way across the room, hit on the side by some blunt object. Charlie-one shouted reports from everyone as they secured their prisoners. On Ruth's line, Calum heard her report – presumably to Harry, who was lurking around the place – that there was no visible powder release, nor explosion from the backpacks. HPA were checking now.

Beside Calum, the man watching Omar Djaout's house tensed and sat up a bit straighter. It took Calum a moment to realise that, as he didn't have an earpiece, his movements must be as a result of something happening here. He was just hearing that the backpacks were empty and there were no explosive devices in sight when a van rolled up alongside their own and the driver stepped out, jogging up to the front door of Omar Djaou's semi-detached bungalow.

"We have negative identification on Bassam Saidani," Erin was shouting, down the line. "Correction; negative ID on Saidani or the other two unnamed targets."

Shrinking back slightly against his seat and suddenly glad that they had parked quite far away from the house they were watching, Calum turned to the man beside him and motioned for him not to make a move – nothing to draw attention towards them. Then, very quietly, he unmated his mike and spoke down the line, to Ruth.

"We have just had a van make approach towards the Djaout house. Bassam Saidani is driving, the other two men are in the passenger seats." Calum watched as Saidani received two bags from Omar Djaout, at the doorway to his house, then jogged back down the steps, climbed into the cab of the van, and gunned the engine again, preparing to leave. "They are in possession of two packages and have taken a left, at the end of the road – heading for the city."

.

For a moment, everything hung in the balance, then there was a flurry of activity.

Erin ordered five of the men present to detain the prisoners while she gathered the others to her and told them to reform in assault groups and head back towards transport. Gathering two of the three HPA men, she told them that they were needed at another location and Calum heard them all rush off towards the cars. As he motioned for the man beside him to start the engine and follow the van which had just left, keeping a safe distance, Calum heard Ruth's line click and Harry's voice appear down it.

"Calum, we need you to keep that van within our sights. We're sending teams over. You've got at least thirty minutes before they reach any of the targets we've had chatter on this morning. We should be able to get the assault teams to you in time."

Ruth's voice suddenly interrupted his, before he could reply.

"Calum, we have new intel on a market in Canning Town," she spoke, "just received it from my man at GCHQ. Something going down in fifteen minutes. Could be our bombers."

Harry swore, quietly.

"We need to send the Met in if we can't get there in time," Calum heard him say, to Ruth rather than down the mic, to him. He felt inclined to respond anyway, however. Technically, this was his operation. He was the one following the men with explosives strapped to their backs. He was the one putting himself in harm's way, once they stopped and he had to follow them on foot, through the market. He had a right to give input.

"No police, Harry. These guys have successful clearing routes and a decoy that worked. They're organised. We underestimated their skills of observations earlier, when they allowed themselves to be seen, coming into the country. We don't want to do the same again. They might yet have another trick up their sleeves."

Harry gave a soft noise of recognition.

"We'll have them on standby," Ruth compromised, after a moments' pause, during which Calum's surveillance van took a corner slightly too-fast and he almost ended up on the lap of the driver. Scowling at him, he pulled his seatbelt on and continued to listen down the line, to Ruth. "Calum, we need you to give us a running update on their path. We're following your progress on GPS, but it would be good to know fifty metres ahead of time."

"Got it," Calum confirmed. "Just turned at the end of the street, heading out west on the A124."

"Thanks."

.

The van pulled abruptly to a halt seven minutes into their pursuit, then slowly wound its way down a back alley, between two large buildings. Calum and his companion watched from a distance, in their own van. He was fairly sure that Saidani and his men had not spotted them, yet, but they had held back further than regulation distance to be safe. Better safe than sorry, after all, thought the young officer, as the four terrorists stepped out of the van. They were wearing different clothes to those they had been wearing when surveillance had snapped shots of them earlier that day and, in this area, they would blend right in.

Shit, thought Calum, watching them exit the car and appropriate the backpacks on their shoulders. The bags hung relatively loosely. At first glance, Calum would not have listed them as possible weapons but he knew that they carried powder and how much space could that take up, really? He knew that some infinitesimal amount of anthrax bacteria could be used to infect hundreds of thousands of people. It was the 'sweetest' weapon, to voice Calum. To voice Ruth, it was horrific.

He didn't have any gear, he thought, watching them walk away down the street. There was no way he could protect himself, should the stuff be released into the atmosphere and, once he was infected, he had a fifty-two percent chance of horrible agonising death. And even if he didn't die, he would still have the horrible agonising pain to suffer through, before a slow recovery. As they headed down the street towards the market, however, Calum did not stop to think what he should do. Holstering his weapon, he climbed out the car, pulled a hoodie on over his shirt to make himself fit more with the local, and turned to the other officer beside him.

"You don't have to come."

The officer – the young man who had smelt of egg and watercress, been so enthusiastic about Christmas and whom Calum did not even know the full name of – stared for a moment, then he turned and locked the van's doors, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Come on. We better go," he said, to Calum. "They're almost at the corner and if we wait any longer we'll lose our eyeline."

What an unlikely pair they made, Calum thought, as they walked swiftly together towards the end of the street, trying to look casual as their hearts raced with terror at what they were walking into. What an unlikely pair to have to save the people of the marketplace. The 'just in case' boys, to the rescue, Calum thought, swallowing hard as they rounded the corner and saw the three men walking towards a crowded market place.

It was a pretty little street, with colourful stalls and colourful people lining the way. The area was predominantly Pakistani and the women's clothing was particularly vibrant. Calum could see saris and scarves, headdresses and hairpieces. There were stalls selling vegetables. There were stalls selling clothing and scarves and children's toys. There were all sorts of people gathered around them, young and old, all at risk, thought Calum, trying to regulate his breathing. All at risk should the men who were ten paces on front of him loose the bombs that were in their backpacks. He let his hand slide to the waistband of his jeans, feeling the edge of the holster. Now was the time. They had to strike now.

"I have the four men in our sights," he told Ruth, over comms. "Harry, I need permission to use lethal force."

"You have it," he murmured back, in softer tones than Calum was used to.

Great, he thought, they were both going to die. Even Harry Pearce knew it.

"I'm going in," he replied, in steady voice.

"Be careful," Ruth whispered, back.

The man beside him gave him a long look. He was strangely calm. Calum was seething inside, with thoughts. He had thought this was just a side mission – this had been a side mission – how quickly he had gone from sitting in a surveillance van, bored out of his wits, to being here, watching the world fall around him. These men were going to loose a bomb. The bomb was going to disperse anthrax into the air and half of them would be dead before the sun was up in two days time. Thirty-six hours, the HPA men had said, about the anthrax Five had obtained and given to Avery Price, to guard. Thirty-six hours between infection and death and a fifty-two percent mortality rate. It was cruel and horrific but they would all die, if Calum and watercress boy could not stop them.

His hand twitched, bringing him closer to grasping the handle of his weapon. He glanced sideways at his companion.

It was now or never.

But they never did withdraw their weapons and shoot the men. They never did take them out with no warning, to eliminate the possibility they could loosing their weapons and striking on the marketplace. Instead, Calum and his companion were distracted by the sudden appearance of a neon blue Suburu Impreza.

The car arrived on the scene with the screech of brakes, skidding out from between two of the stalls and coming to a halt in the middle of the marketplace, much to the chagrin of the man selling the aubergines, who waved one of the larger vegetables towards them. Throwing their backpacks aside, the four men climbed into the passenger and the back seats of the car. Calum and the junior field officer watched them go, caught completely off their guard.

This was not what they had expected at all. They had thought the bombers would situate themselves in an area of high density and strike. Not this, not dropping their bags and running away.

As the car sped away, in a cloud of rubber, Calum saw his possibility for catching them begin to vanish. There was nothing he could do, he thought, feeling a surge of helplessness. If these bombs had been left to detonate by themselves then there was nothing he could do. Perhaps there was a way of disarming them though, said a tiny voice in the back of his mind. Perhaps there was some hope. And, for that reason, he did not jump forwards and aim his gun at the tires of the retreating Suburu. For that reason, he told the man at his side to stand down.

"I need to check those bags," he told the man on his left. "We might still have time to disarm whatever's left inside." He nodded back behind them. "You get in the car and try and catch up with these guys. Call Harry Pearce on extension 2023. Give your call sign and get him to patch you through to the teams who are heading over here. They're going to need as much information as they can get hold of."

"Yes sir," the younger officer nodded, and turned on his heel, taking off across the tarmac.

Across the way, people were starting to crowd around the bomb. Feeling a stirring of panic, Calum leapt forwards.

"Please stand back!" he shouted at them. "I am an undercover officer working for London met. These bags may contain stolen merchandise. Any move to hide them or assist in the transport of stolen goods will be treated as hostile activity." His words had the dual effect of making the locals step back from the bag and making several members of the market hurriedly begin bundling their (presumably stolen) merchandise back into their vans, clearly aiming for an escape. Calum had no time for them, however. Approaching the bags cautiously, he knelt down and reached out one hand, delicately opening the zip.

He didn't know why he was holding his breath. If there was anthrax bacteria inside, the whole street was already as good as infected. It was a windy day. The toxin could have travelled a whole block, by now. Letting out his breath, then, Calum pulled open the bag and looked inside.

It was empty.

"Negative on the weapon," he called, down his earpiece, checking the other bag for good measure then swearing and throwing them to the side, standing up and glaring after where the blue Suburu had disappeared to. Hopefully his companion in the surveillance van would have caught up, by now – though Calum didn't fancy his chances in a high-speed pursuit, not in that old tin can. Running a hand over his head, he pressed his earpiece in and asked Ruth what was going on.

"Pursuit of the Suburu along the A1011," she responded, sounding harassed and extremely nervous. "Harry's just popped out to call the Home Secretary to update him. They look like they're heading towards the City proper."

Calum screwed up his forehead. Something in this wasn't sitting right.

Then, a brainwave hit.

"Can you do me a massive favour, Ruth?" he asked, down the phone. "I need someone to run down possible targets in this area. Not ones which came up in our chatter-," he added, as the analyst made noises as if to complain, "but all possible targets. Things we might not be supposed to know about. Things our mole might have shopped to these men."

As he turned and began to run back towards the abandoned van that the terrorists had left, Ruth began to catch on

"You think the van might..."

"Have the explosives." Calum answered for her. "These guys have already shown us they know how to make an effective decoy."

"Shit."

"Exactly," Calum panted. His breaths were quickening as his muscles started to strain beneath him. He had always been a good sprinter, but stamina wasn't his strong point and his blood started to lose oxygen at an alarming pace. In just under a minute, however, he arrived back at the side of the van and did a quick scan of the area, taking in the lack of security cameras and suchlike. Pressing in his own mic, he did a circle of the van. "Investigating the vehicle left by our suspects," he told Ruth. "Keys absent from ignition but it seems to be a straightforward system. No alarm code, no booby traps that I can see."

"Locked?" Ruth asked.

Taking one hand off his gun, Calum reached out and checked the handle.

"Affirmative," he spoke, down the earpiece. Then, turning his gun around and checking briefly over his shoulder, he smashed the butt of the plastic firearm through the driver's side window. The glass fell away with a tinkling sound. He reached inside and unlocked the vehicle. Pulling the door open, he leant over the seat and remotely unlocked the boot. "I'll just have a quick look around," he told Ruth, in the calmest voice he could muster. Inside, he was screaming. This was the point at which any sensible person would turn away, he thought, and leave it to the HPA. He wasn't even wearing protective gear. It was like the panic he had felt about the bags on the street, all over again. reasoning that nothing bad had happened to him then, Calum took a deep breath, walked around to the back of the van and pulled it to.

Inside there was an enormous bomb, canisters of liquid explosive wrapped in wires. A small panel sat on the far end of it, its screen showing a constantly changing series of small, red LED numbers. Six minutes, read the screen. Six minutes until detonation.

Calum swallowed hard.

His heart was in his throat.

"Guys, you're going to have to tell bomb squad to step on it."

.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N - I seem to be running a bit behind schedule, so you'll be getting your Christmas chapters on New Years and your New Years chapters in January. Think of it like those presents you get from distant relations - the ones that never arrive on time and keep the festive spirit alive that little bit longer. =) -Silver._

_Chapter 16_

_._

_December 20, 2011_

.

Ruth's hand froze, halfway to the mouse pad, at the sound of Calum's voice down the comms line.

"We have four canisters arranged end-to-end and a detonation device on either end." She could hear him frowning. She could hear the terror in his voice, as well. "There are wires all around the place, Ruth, I have no idea what I'm doing here." She heard a rustling noise. "Timer's at six forty eight. I'm sending photographs through, for Tariq to have a look."

Behind Ruth's shoulder, Harry tensed.

She glanced up him.

Six minutes forty eight. Not a bloody chance of them managing to stop this. Not a hope in hell. Bomb disposal was out with Erin and Dimitri. The Met wouldn't be there in time to do anything but get caught up in the blast. It was down to Tariq, then. She and Harry both turned to face the young man as the images came through, Calum's accompanying voice on the line telling them that he was going to try and clear the street.

"We need details on these buildings to!" he called, jerking Ruth from her startled reverie. "Call and get an emergency evac from the furthest exits. The blasts should only take out a few rooms on each side. Whatever they're aiming for here, it's not the usual human casualties."

Point.

"I'll do that now, Calum," Ruth said, leaning forwards and beginning to bring up planning department blueprints from archives. Behind her, Harry had reached over and was on the phone to someone, talking in rapid undertones. On her far right, Tariq was tapping madly away at his computer.

Planning department had nothing immediately. After a minute or so, however, a small code at the bottom of one of the drawings caused a twinge of panic in her stomach.

"Harry!" she called.

Her boss was at her side in seconds, absent the phone now, which seemed to have been passed to Tariq.

"What's going on?"

"The building they planted the van beside has a cold storage unit inside – could account for the government zoning codes around the area."

Harry's frown intensified. "Shit." He turned, walking quickly back through to his office. "Tariq's on my phone to an old friend in bomb control. I'm going to need you to patch me through on a secure line to Richard Neilson, over at Vauxhall."

"Will do." Ruth tapped quickly at her keyboard. Running through a quick protocol, she had Richard Neilson on the line in time for Harry to start snapping at him. While he was dealing with alerting them to the damage that was about to happen to their secret cold storage unit – which, thankfully, sounded like it was devoid of live personnel – Ruth turned back to Tariq. "Anything I can help with?"

The young man swivelled his eyes over. He looked terrified.

"I need you to run down some component numbers and check them against known bombs we have encountered before." He shook his head slightly. "I haven't got the first bloody clue how to disarm this thing. It seems to have two power sources, a double-trip mechanism and some arrangement of contacts around the timer device which can detonate this thing three different ways, if it's tampered with." Ruth could see a slight sheen of sweat across his brow. He looked like he was about to be sick.

It was the sole responsibility. Everyone else was doing things to help. She would do cross-searches and keep Calum calm. Harry would call Neilson and try and get the place evacuated, try and find out what was in that building. Erin and Dimitri would make their way as fast as was possible to the site. But it was Tariq who was the only one who could stop this. He was the only one with any bomb disposal training above basic knowledge. He was the one on the line to the specialists, trying to figure out a way to defuse this thing. It was him. Him and none of the others. And he was so young. So very young.

Ruth nodded to the phone.

"Who are you on with?"

"Paul from C. He dealt with some incendiaries last year, in Paris. Nothing to this scale, though. He's looking through their reports for something on the trigger mechanism, but he thinks it might be novel."

A new trigger mechanism. It made sense. Instead of going to people who had made mechanisms before, they went to a new man, an electronics shop owner who designed them something new. It would have been more expensive than using a traditional trigger but it would have the bonus of not being able to be disarmed, should it be discovered – such as what had happened here. Novel, or not, however, there had to be a way to disarm it. There had to be a way of doing something. They had to do something! Time was ticking away.

Six minutes two seconds.

Five minutes forty five.

Tariq was tapping madly at his machine. Ruth, her cross-searches running, scanning through the results as they popped up and not recognising anything, patched herself through to Calum's comms. Their man was still running around the van, blocking off a perimeter of fifty metres in all directions. She could hear him waving his badge, shouting at the local personnel. He had entrapped an off-duty police officer, who was covering the other side of the alleyway, warning off people walking towards the market.

Met would be there anytime soon, Ruth thought, they just had to make sure they didn't get any closer than fifty metres. Fifty metres was the lethal range of something this size. At seventy-five, you stood a chance of escaping with most of your limbs, at a hundred you could probably walk away with a few cuts and bruises. But Calum was only five metres away from the vehicle, Ruth thought, bringing up a fuzzy screen of the entrance to the alleyway that Six had sent over – one of their secret cameras which they had kindly not alerted the Grid to. Calum was running back towards the van.

"I'm going to have another look around," he told Ruth down the line, sounding oddly calm, considering. "See if there's anything I've missed."

He thrived on stress. Ruth had noticed it in field agents before, most noticeably Adam Carter. They seemed to waste away, when they were stuck doing menial tasks. Ruth had noticed that listless lilt in Calum's voice, just this morning, when he had called her from the surveillance van. He hated being sidelined. Harry would do well to note it, she thought, and shift him into one department or another. He didn't have to be in the field. He enjoyed running paper trails every bit as much – as long as it wasn't sitting doing nothing. He needed the stress. He needed the thrill. Harry should put him somewhere where he could be the most use.

That was, if he ever got out of this.

"How are you doing?" she asked Calum, quietly, calmly. He needed a voice of reason, right now, to combat the noise of fear and emotion in his head. He needed to hear someone talking like they were going to fix this. "What does your timer read?" They had a countdown of their own going, but it was something for Calum to do – something easy.

"Four minutes twelve seconds," he replied, with a short swallow, "and heading down..."

"Tariq's working with a specialist from C. We've got bomb squad on the tablets, too. Them and Erin are running through possible manoeuvres. The theory at the moment is the yellow wire wrapped around the front of the display leads back to the ignition switch. They think if you can short it out, create a looped circuit, then it will be stuck in a continual count-down mode."

"The phrase 'they think' doesn't exactly give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, Ruth."

"I know." She grimaced at herself, then tapped through another five photographs of old bombs which had popped up, comparing them to the shots Calum had taken. "Cal, could you take a side shot of the display for me?" she asked, an idea striking.

A shuffling noise sounded over the microphone. Then she heard the noise of his phone capturing an image and a file popped up as transferring on her screen.

"Make sure your exit route is still clear," she told him, as she loaded it up.

"It's clear." Calum sat for a moment, still, as she investigated the photograph then let out a sigh.

"Bugger."

"What?"

"I thought we might have been able to get at the timer mechanism, reprogram it for a longer time, but its soldered down."

Calum remained silent for a moment.

Ruth had just opened her mouth to say something else when he murmured "hang on a moment, Ruth, that's the PC coming back." She heard a rustling noise, then the slight creaking of the back doors. "Officer? Have we got the place cleared out?"

"We're moving people out of the building across the way. The building to our right is a wing of a private hospital. They are still hooking their ICU cases up to battery-operated equipment, so they can be moved, but they should be out in seven minutes."

Calum was silent – a silence which Ruth shared, she expected for the same reason. They didn't have seven minutes. They didn't even have five minutes. They had three minutes, fifty three seconds. Counting down. And Calum needed one and a half minutes to get clear of the area. They only had seventy-odd seconds left before he had to get out of there.

This was decision time. There was a possibility Tariq could crack the code. He was shouting over to Ruth now – and Calum could hear, over comms – that he had a lead on the program the electrician had used, to program the timer. It was digital, not manual, so there was a way they could override it. If he could just trace back the algorithm they used, to protect the 'stop code' and upload it to Calum's phone, Calum could key the numbers into the pad and override the detonation sequence. They could stop it, Tariq said, if he managed to crack it quick enough. But there was always the risk he wasn't going to be in time.

"Calum, you have forty-five seconds until you have to leave," Ruth told him, over the line.

"Affirmative." She heard him exhale, heavily, then turn back to the policeman. "Listen, you need to get up there and help get the hospital patients out. In ninety seconds time, just get out of here. There's nothing else you can do for them after that."

She heard the policeman begin to enquire what he was going to do, but Calum didn't let him.

"I'll stay here until we can't do anything more, either," he told the PC. "I have a colleague working on a way to bring this thing down. He's fairly confidant its going to work but get those people out of here anyway. Do you understand me, officer?"

The policeman stammered a quick 'yes sir' and Ruth heard him run off.

She and Calum were alone again.

"Fairly confidant?" she asked him, down the line.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't going to get rid of him otherwise, was I?" Calum said, in a mockery of the usual cheerful tone he used with them, at the office. "He's one of those damned hero-types. Probably would have slung me out over his shoulder and carried me to safety."

Ruth gave a wry smile down at her hands. She was still running through photographs, trying to match up pieces of the bomb they saw now with others they had seen in the past. It wasn't working, however. There was nothing. This was a novel device, designed by a genius. The detonators at either end were interlinked and double-connected so many times it was impossible to separate either of them without the other going off. The only weakness was this program that the timer was running on – a mark of vanity on the makers', the young technical officer said, as he tapped away at his desk. If he had just stuck with an old-fashioned manual clock, they would have had no way of stopping it. But this was digital. And digital wizardry could be broken by a digital wizard.

Turning to the digital wizard, Ruth asked for an update. He murmured something about being almost there.

Harry strode back into the room behind them and came to rest behind Ruth, leaning over until his head was level with her ear.

"We have confirmation on what Six are keeping in that unit. It's not good." There was honest horror in his voice and it chilled Ruth right to the bone.

"Biological?"

"Nerve agent."

"Range?"

"Larger than the bomb blast ten times over, when dispersed as aerosol." He handed her a sheet of paper.

Ruth read it over, her heart sinking further into her stomach.

"How did we not know about this?" she asked, panic peaking. There was no way these men were going to be safe, now, even at a fifty metre distance. Hell, there was a risk for everyone within a kilometer's radius – depending on the prevailing wind and varying level of susceptibilities of those it encountered. It was bad, whatever way they looked at it. Calum, certainly, did not stand a chance. "Why was there no chatter, to us, to GCHQ?"

"These guys have already bluffed and decoyed us to Hell and back, Ruth. I suppose the point was to make us see a smaller attack to disregard bigger targets. I don't know, it's not important." His eyes slid over to Tariq, who was busy tapping away. "You still have Calum on the line?"

"Can hear you loud and clear," a quiet voice told Ruth, in her earpiece.

She nodded, to Harry.

"You get all of that?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"He did," Ruth relayed.

"Okay..." Harry swallowed. "How much time do we have left?"

"Two minutes seven seconds."

"You don't have time to clear the scene." Harry stated, bluntly.

Ruth threw him a horrified look, "Harry-!"

Calum interrupted her tirade, however, "-he's right, Ruth. I'm stuck here. The best option I have is to hang around and hope that Tariq cracks the timer program and gets us a stop code. Even if he fails and the bomb goes off, I'd rather be blown to smithereens here than be fifty metres away and sprayed with nerve agent. I'd rather go quick than die seizing and drooling."

"Calum, you can't just-,"

A voice broke in, over comms. It was the young field officer who Calum had been sharing surveillance duty with. He had the blue Suburu that the bombers had sped off in within his sights and was closing in. Erin was also on the line, arguing over tactics for the assault. They were nearby, presumably, perhaps within sight too. Not close enough to the van to help, though, thought Ruth, muting their end of the conversation and sending it over to another analyst to deal with. She had to concentrate on the here and now – on Calum in his wait till death and Tariq, who unknowingly held his life in his hands.

"Calum, Tariq's working on it," she told him, as calmly as she could muster. "We'll have a code in the next few minutes."

"Hopefully in under one minute and fifty seconds," Calum responded.

"You know, one in ten of those type of trigger mechanisms don't even go off," Ruth pushed, blood rushing past her ears. It was a real statistic but now, looking at it in reality rather than in theory, it didn't sound very comforting. Ten percent. It wasn't much. "You could still make it to a reasonable perimeter," Ruth added, feeling a spark of desperation.

Harry stirred at her side, looking slightly disapproving.

Calum couldn't quite make it to a reasonable perimeter. Harry knew that. She knew that. Hell, even Calum knew that. She shouldn't have said he could, it was akin to giving him false hope. In the position he was in, now, Calum stood to get either blown up, if he stayed, or die a horribly painful death if he ran. Even if he only got a low dose of the nerve agent, it would be fatal. Eventually. Ruth wasn't sure why she had said it. She supposed it was because it all seemed so hopeless. She felt so _helpless_. She wanted to do something. As the certainty that her new friend was going to die, she felt herself overcome by a desire for him to live, just to live through the blast, because then there felt like some chance of rectifying the situation.

Harry's soft hand against her neck, however, told her to stop talking.

She gave a softly shuddering breath in, swallowing her words.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, as the seconds continued to tick down. "I don't know why I said that. "

"It's okay," Calum told her, softly. She could hear the smile – that self-deprecating little smile he did when he was trying to win them over. And he always thought he needed to win them over. He tried to hard, to make friends, did Calum. What he didn't know was that Ruth would have been his friend no matter what. She couldn't help herself. She befriended all of them. Mothered all of them. All the young spooks she had lost... "Ruth, honestly, I'm fine," he told her, comfortingly. "Just help Tariq. If you two boffins can't get me out of this mess then no one can."

"I can't-," she admitted, in a strained voice. "We have no idea what we're doing here. Tariq's just hoping for the best." Harry's hand tightened, slightly, against her upper shoulder and she rephrased her last statement. "The program looks like its working, but I don't know if we'll have the stop code in time," she murmured, lamely.

"It's okay. He'll get there. And if he doesn't, then at least we've all done what we can."

"Stop saying that." She wished he wouldn't say that. She wished he wouldn't sound so calm. Her mind was seething. She hadn't felt so utterly helpless since she was listening to Harry stand on that rooftop with John Bateman, since she had listened to one of them fall and sat, shaking, not knowing which one it was.

Tears crept to her eyes. Was this Calum's turn?

Harry's thumb stroked the back of her neck. A glance up at him told her that his jaw was clamped tightly down.

Why didn't he say something, she wondered? Why wouldn't he say something to the man who was about to die for them?

"Harry?" she asked, quietly.

"How long do we have?" he asked Calum – doing what she had done earlier, giving him something to do. Something constructive.

"Fifty eight seconds."

"Okay. I want you to go and do a sweep of the road around the van then return. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

They heard him get up and do exactly as Harry had said, then return to the van. In the time he was away, Harry went to check in with Tariq, who was typing faster than anyone Ruth had ever seen. Panic was writ across his face. Harry was murmuring something to him, then gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. A calming voice, Ruth thought, watching as he left him to it, walking back over to her. A small shake of his head told her all she needed to know. The program wasn't going to get the stop code in time. Calum was on his own.

Muting her link to him, she looked up at Harry.

"Do we tell him? Do we have him try and figure out some other way – cut a wire? Move the van?" The last comment made her think so much of Adam Carter that her throat constricted. She hadn't been with the team, when it happened, but she knew how it had gone down. Died a hero. Died a martyr. Died alone.

"Moving the van detonates it," Harry answered, however. "There are pressure switches on the two trigger mechanisms. They can't be tampered with or moved or they will trigger an alarm code to the other."

"So there's nothing we can do?"

"Nothing."

She bit her lip. Harry looked like he might reach forwards and touch her again but the thought of them being comforted when Calum was alone and scared was too much for Ruth and she quickly turned away from him.

In her peripheral vision, Harry looked down, perhaps ashamed.

They all sat for a horrible thirty seconds, her looking through her photographs over again, a young analyst and the bomb disposal man arguing violently about red wires and yellow wires and both coming to the conclusion that there was nothing that could be done, Harry checking in with Erin and not being able to get through, because of the noise of the assault happening in the background.

Twenty five seconds.

Twenty...

"Calum?" Ruth asked. He had gotten back into the van and was sitting next to the keypad. She could hear his shallow, quick breathing, but noted the lack of tremor in his voice as he replied to her. He was calm. Composed.

"Hey Ruth."

"We're going to be here. If you need to talk, just-," she cut herself off, slightly, knowing that Calum Reid had precious few people in the world to talk to. His mother had died when he was young. His father had Parkinson's and stayed in a home, too far gone to know what was happening around him. He had no siblings. He had no cousins or aunts or uncles. He had a few friends, but they were mostly friends from work. He lived for this job. He would die for this job. "I'm here," she told him, knowing how important it could be just to have someone. Anyone.

"I know."

Fifteen seconds.

She glanced at Tariq, he was still tapping madly, but there was a loss of hope in his eyes now. It wasn't going to be done. He was shaking his head as he noticed she was watching – still trying, though, still trying harder than anyone. His eyes were wide, his skin was shiny with sweat.

"I'll miss you." Calum said softly, prompting her to turn back to the screen, back to the source of his voice. "All of you. Tell Tariq no hard feelings, will you? And tell Harry he's an ass for sticking me on surveillance duty."

Ruth gave a soft noise of laughter. She glanced over at Harry, who was wearing a wry smile, looking down at the floor.

This was it. This was goodbye. Calum would never have said that if this wasn't goodbye.

"Okay," she told the younger officer. "I'll do that."

"And get your act together, the pair of you. The sexual tension is killing us all."

She closed her eyes, but smiled a little more. After this was done, after this nerve agent was released, there would be precious little time of getting anyone's act together. There would be panic. There would be military involvement. Harry's job would be on the line again. It would all fall to pieces. If only Tariq had managed to get the stop code.

It had all gone so wrong...

Suddenly, a bleep sounded over the emergency comms system. Erin's voice followed, bellowing out a number.

"_Stop code is 7371 asterisk enter, repeat, 7371 asterisk enter!"_

For two seconds, nobody moved, then – her tongue almost tripping over the words – Ruth scrambled forwards to relay the message. Pulling her mic closer to her mouth, she shouted the code down the line, calling for confirmation from Calum.

Five seconds... they only had five seconds.

"Stop code is 7371 asterisk enter, repeat, 7371 asterisk enter!"

"7371 asterisk enter."

Her mind didn't seem to register Calum shouting confirmation as he typed the numbers in. It was Harry, to her left, who shouted 'yes'.

For a few rapid beats of her heart, everything seemed to hang still. And then...

There was a soft beep from Calum's end and a strangled cry of joy and relief.

"Fuck. Oh fuck, shit... it's disarmed... it's disarmed..." His voice was muffled, as if he had placed his hands over his face. "Home, stop code is valid... Officer Reid standing down." There was the noise of someone stumbling backwards out of the van and then Calum appeared on the camera feed they were watching, on the Grid.

Ruth watched as he staggered over to the side of the van and fell forwards against it, resting his head in his hands and his hands against the panel. Around her on the Grid, she could hear cheers and the breathless voice of Tariq, half-cheering half-panicking that he had not managed to get the code in time. Harry was talking rapidly down the phone to Erin, but the relief in his eyes was enough to flood her with complete relief.

"Alpha team has our five suspects. Positive identification on Saidani, Hamuy and three others. Omar Djaout has been taken into custody by London Met, trying to flee the country."

Her stomach gave a strange half-turn inside of her. It was over. The nerve agent would be safe. The bomb wasn't going to go off. Calum wasn't going to die and they had caught the men behind it all. In the space of five seconds, everything had changed. And she couldn't even face finding out how it had come about. Getting shakily to her feet, she motioned that she would be back in a moment. Then, quickly walking to the bathroom, she locked herself inside and leant forwards against the sink, turning the taps on full.

The rushing water soothed her nerves and made the tightness in her throat almost bearable.

.

Three hours after the events at the market in Canning Town, Calum was back safe and sound on the Grid and all those who were not responsible for clean-up on the operation had been sent home to get some well deserved rest. Ruth was still in, of course, seated behind her desk at the far corner of the Grid. She was still running through it all, in her mind.

It had been down to Erin and Dimitri that they had managed to get the stop-code in time. They had been on their way across town to Calum when they had heard about Calum's young partner in the surveillance van, tailing the blue Suburu across Newham. Making a tactical decision that having the men who made the bomb would be more helpful than standing around with the bomb itself, Erin had split her team and headed after the Suburu as well.

Traffic in the area had been terrible and they had looked not to make it at all, until Erin had spotted a bay of ambulances, parked outside a hospital, and had a brainwave. Requisitioning one, she and Dimtri, with five officers holding on in the back, had careered across town with the sirens blazing – people peeling off the road on front of them in a way people rarely seemed to do, for undercover cars with sirens. It was a genius move, really – and the only way it had been possible for them to get across that part of London in the time they had. They had been driving ninety, Dimitri had told Ruth, with eyes wide with adrenaline. He had feared for his bloody life.

But they had arrived in time. They had coordinated with the young surveillance officer, following the Suburu and managed to collide with the getaway vehicle at a T-junction, the two MI5 vehicles ramming the terrorists' transport up against a thick concrete barrier and capturing the terrorists as they crawled out from the rubble. Within thirty seconds, Erin had identified the most vulnerable member of the group and 'gently cajoled' him into telling her where the stop-code was being kept; on one of the other men's mobile phones.

Everyone, save Bassam Saidani, the cell leader, had come out of it alive. Erin had a black eye, Dimitri looked like he had been dragged along a street of sandpaper and now had his right hand wrapped up – to match his left, which he had injured on a field operation the other day – but none of the assault team had any worse injuries. The young field officer who had been paired with Calum, on surveillance duty, had been paraded around the Grid as their newest hero. Ruth suspected Harry would have hired him there and then, if regulations would have allowed it. As it were, he would receive a medal for bravery and Harry would suggest his transfer to the department come Monday.

It was one of the rare days when they accomplished everything they had set out to do and everybody lived.

So, when Harry approached her across the Grid, she gave him a soft smile rather than hide the joy that rose in her, whenever he was near. There was too much time wasted on hiding from each other. She had been shocked by what he had told her that morning, over breakfast. She had been a little hurt that he had never mentioned about the son he had thought he had before. Still, she would rather know than not know. And it was part of Harry. It was part of what made him the man he was; the man she loved.

"I thought I told you all to go home," Harry said, coming to a halt at her side and wearily leaning against her desk. He looked so tired. So much older than he usually did.

Ruth looked around. Erin and Dimitri had left to medical as soon as they had returned, then were told to take the next day off to rest their bruised bodies. Calum and the young surveillance officer had hovered around for a bit longer, once they had returned. The former basking in being alive and the latter basking in being recognised. They were gone now, too, to get some rest. Some officers from C had been drafted in, to keep the cross-searches and paper trails they were running on their mole going. Ruth was still here because she was overseeing the transition. Tariq was still here because he was addled with guilt, over not being able to find the stop-code in time.

"Did you speak to him?" she asked Harry, nodding over towards the technical suite.

He looked over and sighed.

"Yes. I spoke to all of them." The lines deepened, across his brow. "The usual speech, how there's nothing more we could have done, that we were lucky, that we should celebrate this as the victory it is and not get bogged down in the 'what if's."

"You were always good at pep talks," Ruth told him, just to catch the smile that pulled his lips back, as he looked back towards her.

"I hate giving them."

"I know."

They watched each other for a long time, then she sighed and stretched, standing from her station.

"Tariq will be fine. He'll figure out how to trace the algorithm back and stop beating himself up about it all as soon as Calum makes some horrid sarcastic quip at him, tomorrow. Then, everything will go back to normal, we'll trace Avery Price and haul him in." She nodded to Harry. "You'll get your job back, I'll go back to making your life a living hell with paperwork and Dimtri will blow up another few cars, just for good measure."

"And Erin will now steal ambulances." Harry finished, then cocked his head slightly. "Do you think he's having a bad influence on her?"

Ruth chuckled.

"Probably." She threw her coat on and grabbed hold of her bag. "It was a bloody good idea, though."

"It was indeed."

Harry watched her for another long minute, then shoved his hands into his pockets, his stance changing slightly.

"I'm heading back too," he said, then hastened to explain. "I know, earlier than usual, but Wes is back tonight and I said I'd be there if I could." He shifted again, awkwardly. "I could give you a lift back, if you'd like? You're on my way. It wouldn't be any bother."

Ruth watched him carefully.

He had asked her if she'd like a lift back more times than she could remember, over the years. More often than not, she had refused. Unless she had been dead on her feet, she had preferred to take the bus. On days that she had felt particularly enamored by him, or particularly frustrated, she knew that getting in a car, in confined space, was the very last thing they needed. It was confrontational. It allowed for conversations to be held, in privacy, where she could not escape. There was no exit strategy for a car at speed, after all. She had had to be careful. Now, though... Now she was moving forwards. And she didn't want to take the bus tonight. Tonight she was still reeling from the day's events.

"I'd like that," she told him, quietly.

"Good."

Harry looked more than relieved.

.

Together, they walked down to the car lot and climbed into the driver and passenger seats of his company car. He should be far too exhausted to be in charge of any moving vehicle, he joked, as he pulled the car into gear and slipped out, past security, with an incline of the head. Still, driving was a nice break after the day. It was nice to be in control, once in a while.

Ruth understood, in a way. She hated feeling helpless and there was something comforting about the repetitive motion of driving. Harry did look exhausted, though. And with good reason. He had been at work for nearly three days. He had slept overnight and pulled a double shift before that. Driving was probably not the best of ideas. To be honest, staying awake any longer than was strictly necessary was not the best of ideas. He should go home and go straight to bed.

She could help there, Ruth mused, watching him from the passenger street. She could take him home, curl up beside him, wrap them both up in a duvet and sleep this all away. She was far too nervous to suggest it, however. And it was perhaps not wise to imply that was what he had wanted, when he had offered her a lift home. It might make him reticent to ask again. So, instead, she turned to admire the Christmas lights passing, outside the window.

It was beautiful, London in December. Strings of lights, beautiful displays in some areas, civilian offerings in others. Wreaths and candles in windows, the occasional Christmas tree on view in the front of buildings. Tinsel and frosting and lights. Ruth had always been fond of the multi-coloured ones. They reminded her of her childhood, of a morning spent with her father stringing them up all around her house. Her mother had been furious when she had returned and the 'colour scheme' had been ruined. In eight year old Ruth's eyes, there could be nothing more beautiful, however. Now, she almost agreed with that assessment. There were a few things more beautiful.

Raising her eyes, she focussed them on the mirror, watching Harry's face again; watching the way the streetlight played off the rise of his cheek and the bridge of his nose, watching the way his hands curled around the steering wheel, guiding them steadily homewards. He was beautiful, to her. He had only ever been average looking, at the best of times, but she knew the man to whom the face belonged and that man was beautiful to her. That man was stronger and braver than any other person she had ever known. He had been lied to and betrayed so many times, hurt so many times, driven to exhaustion so many times. He deserved some good in his life, some relief from it all. And she was done playing martyr. She was done with all the guilt. She was ready to admit that, maybe, she deserved some relief too.

As she watched them, Harry's eyes flicked up to the mirror and caught hers, watching him. Ruth jerked her attention away, focussing forwards out the window again.

A moment passed, then he spoke softly.

"I like it when you watch me."

Ruth felt a little rush of pleasure and embarrassment. Pleasure because this was Harry opening up, this was Harry giving a little piece of his most well-protected self over to her. Embarrassment because he knew she watched him – knew she did it often. Not that she had ever gone out of her way to stop, she reminded herself. Glancing over at him – the real him this time, not the man in the mirror – she let out a steadying breath.

"I'm not the only one with voyeuristic tendencies, Harry," she pointed out.

A little smile tickled his lips.

He watched her almost as often as she watched him. Both of them knew it.

"I suppose you're not," Harry said, turning left off a slip road and heading North-West, away from the city. "I made up my mind that if you ever mentioned it I'd stop."

"You don't have to," she told him, softly. Her eyes traced his, then his cheeks, then his lips. "Stop, that is. Not if you don't want to."

He glanced over again, dark eyes reflecting the Christmas lights sparkling across the way. Green, red, gold, silver. She just wanted that vision she had made for herself earlier. She just wanted to curl up in bed, together, to have someone who was as old and broken and damaged as her, who she knew and loved and who would understand her, who wouldn't ask for anything she couldn't give and would just be there – be there like he had always been there for her. She just wanted him.

Don't stop watching me, she told him, silently. Please don't stop.

"I'm making dinner for Wes, when I get back. I've promised its going to be edible," he told her, in what seemed like a bit of a conversation jump. "Would you like to join us?" He sounded nervous, but excited as well. It had been a while since she had heard the combination in his voice. Since before she had left to Cyprus, she thought. Since before all of the complication and nastiness.

Ruth watched him carefully.

She wanted this. And Wes was going to be there to break the tension, if necessary. She'd like to see Adam's boy, she thought. The last time they met, he was only seven years old, still wild and full of joy and so much like his father. She would like to see the boy and she would like to eat dinner with the man – sort of like having a family. It had been a long time since she had had a family. And a long time since she had felt she deserved one. Maybe it was time to move forwards in this too.

"I'd like that," she told Harry, with a steadying breath. "I'd like that a lot."

.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17 – Christmas Presents_

_._

_December 24, 2011_

.

The Home Secretary was not a man easily ignored, though Harry had tried often enough, over the years. When he called you into a meeting regarding Ilya Gavrik, a failed peace deal and the security implications of a long-term double agent, working for both the KGB and MI5, then, it was almost impossible to say no. Though Harry initially tried to excavate himself from the situation, though he made all sorts of claims about being otherwise occupied with the search for their current security threat – the mole, Avery Price – there was nothing that would dissuade William Towers from putting Gavrik and Pearce in the same room. And so it happened.

The meeting went better than Harry had expected. As he emerged from the Home Office and wrapped a scarf securely around his neck, he contemplated all the things he had expected to go wrong. For starters, there was the fact that he had walked into the room fully anticipating Ilya to stand up and shoot him where he stood, for being a nasty little spy who had been in bed with his wife. Of course, Ilya did nothing of the sort. He had already known about Elena's working for MI5 and her relationship with Harry. He had known that the boy was his, due to a DNA test he carried out, without his wife's knowledge. And, after Elena had (through choice or not) chosen to stay with him, he had not questioned the matter any further. As far as he was concerned, Harry was a nasty chapter of his past and he loved his wife. He had had no knowledge, it turned out, of her duplicity. He hadn't known she had ever met elements of the KGB, let alone that she had been working for them since the early years of their marriage.

Quite against Harry's expectations, Ilya was never less than courteous towards him. There were no veiled remarks, nor implications. The meeting was a quick affair – a few documents to sign, a few agreements to make as to the secrecy of their failed venture, and then they both went on their way. They left the Home Secretary looking oddly proud of himself, as if he had single-handedly saved the day.

Standing outside on the front steps of the Home Office, Harry watched from a distance as Ilya Gavrik and his bodyguards climbed into a black sedan with diplomatic plates. Near the back of the pack, a face he recognised as Sasha Gavriks stood out, from the rest. It was pulled tight with what Harry supposed must be grief. Over the last two weeks, he had learned that his mother was a traitor, twice over, that she would have risked his and his fathers' lives to further her cause, and that his father might not have been his father at all. It had been a difficult few weeks. Though Harry no longer felt the immense bonds of guilt, which had tied them together before, he did pity the young man. Betrayal was never easy. Betrayal from within, from your family (or from what was as good as your family), was one hundred times as potent.

Turning, he stepped quickly off, heading down Horseferry road towards the great building at the corner of the bridge. He could see the edge of it already, from the pavement where he walked. He liked to keep it within sight. Just a few years ago, he had lived less than ten minutes' walk from here, simply to be close. This place had been his life.

Considering that it might not be now – not for too much longer, anyway – was hard to fathom. What would he do with himself, he wondered, should the Service throw him out? If he didn't catch Shayne's mole before the month was out, on the sixth of January, what would be his fate? Would they ignore the good that he had managed, during his temporary reinstatement? Would they condemn him, for all that had come to light about his past? Would he be retired with full benefits and pension or thrown to the wolves?

He didn't think he would mind mandatory retirement, with benefits. The main problem when he had been on suspension had been the lack of purpose. Well, he had a purpose now, he thought, his body warming a little – both with his thoughts and with the increased speed of his legs, as he strode along the frosty pavement. His purpose, now, was to look after the boy who had been entrusted to him. And, maybe, eventually, to look after the woman who was stepping closer to him each passing day.

She had accepted his offer of dinner, the other night, come back to his house and reunited with the boy she had known years previous. Wes being an open-hearted young chap, they had been chatting away like old friends within the hour. Using that magic way she had with people, Wes had even talked to Ruth about his parents – something that Harry had been trying to coax him to do for a week without any success. They had both laughed at Harry's cooking and Wes had showed Ruth his new games' console. Ruth had relaxed enough, in his presence, to sit on Harry's couch and watch the young boy show off at his gaming prowess. She had relaxed enough to have a small glass of port and had moved to one edge of the couch when Harry had come back through from washing up, offering him a seat beside her. She had relaxed enough to remove her shoes and tuck her feet up underneath her, on the couch – the tips of her stockinged feet brushing just faintly against the outside of Harry's thighs. She had relaxed enough to chat to him about that house in the country she was looking at, the one he had noticed on her system the other day.

It was bliss, for him. He had contributed vaguely to the conversation, too tired to over analyse it, and just drunk in her presence. They had sat for a good ten minutes or so. And then, when Wes had run off to have a shower before bed, Harry had followed her as she made her gentle way towards the door, telling him she had ordered a taxi and would get out of his hair so he could get some sleep. Standing on the porch to his house, he had made some quip about not having much hair to get out of, and she should never worry about being in the way. Shyly, because it had been so long since they had been anywhere near this level of intimate with one another, he told her that she was always welcome in his house. She had just smiled and said that he was always welcome at hers as well.

The taxi had arrived behind her, then, and beeped its horn once. Glancing around at it then back at him, Ruth pulled a smile.

"Better be off."

He had nodded, not trusting himself to speak because he wanted desperately to ask her to stay.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry," she had told him, softly. Then, catching him completely off guard, she had stepped one foot back inside his house again and, very cautiously, pressed her lips against his.

It was a soft kiss, the briefest of kisses, and it was over before Harry could fully enjoy it. He barely had time to press his lips back into hers again, tasting the sweetness of her mouth just faintly, before she pulled back and smiled gently.

"Are you in tomorrow?"

He nodded, mutely, again.

Her smile briefly widened, her eyes warm, then she looked down and nodded, clearing her throat.

"Okay. I'll see you then." She stepped backwards off his porch, pulling her coat tightly around herself, her incredibly woolly mittens wrapped around her sides as if for extra warmth. "Good night Harry," she told him, sweetly.

"Goodnight," he had finally managed in reply, once she had made it halfway down the path.

He saw her smile a little more, bashfully looking down, then make her way over to the car, climbing into the back. As it pulled away into the street, he saw her glance back one final time at him, then disappear form sight into the London orange-dark.

Ruth.

He didn't think there were any moments, in their long and complicated history, in which he had felt any more beholden to her than right then. Even now, walking along in the bitter-rain cold of the Christmas Eve afternoon, it warmed him through. As cold rain, almost ice, ticked his cheeks, he thought of Ruth and the way she was finally moving towards him and he smiled to himself. Perhaps all of this horrible business with Albany was working to his advantage. Perhaps that was what it had taken for them both to see what they meant to each other; that she was more important than his job, that he loved her, that he was truly devoted to this. Perhaps what had happened with Elena had been necessary too. She hadn't been happy, hearing about his past, but she had not run away like he had always thought she would. She had not blanched or turned her cheek. She was in this for all of him, just like he was in this for all of her.

Breathing out heavily, Harry watched his breath cloud the air as he sped up yet again. His bad knee would probably kill him, tomorrow, but he wanted to get back to work before the others were finished for the day. It would be nice to wish them all a Merry Christmas and, for the first time in years, he would not be working tomorrow. He had other commitments, after all, now. Wes. Wes for whom he had not bought nearly enough presents. He was fairly sure that a new x-box would only keep an eleven year old busy for a matter of hours and he had all day to entertain the boy. Not to mention how underprepared he was in a matter of food. He would have to stop by the supermarket on the way home, he thought, wondering how people with families managed to fit all of this in along with work. There was a big chain just twenty minutes from his house. He could go by there. They were open until seven on Christmas Eve.

Reaching the side entrance to Thames House, he took the stairs quickly and stepped sharply through the lobby, nodding to security on the way. They hadn't asked for his badge in years. Most of them he knew by name and had known them since they joined the service. Security men lasted longest in the security service, he thought, as he made it to the stairs and began to ascend, more rapidly than his knee felt was truly necessary. He was glad that his team had survived another day, however.

He had taken Calum Reid into his office, the day after the events of the Canning Town van bomb. He had talked to the younger man about his future in the Section and listened to a shamefaced repertoire of how he had been considering resigning up until that very morning.

"What made you change your mind?" Harry had asked. The answer Calum gave him had surprised him somewhat.

"I was going to die and I realised that I hadn't given all that I had to give." The younger officer frowned, looking down at the hands he had folded in his lap. "I realised that I hadn't been giving everything to this job, not fully, and I wanted to rectify that." He looked back up at Harry. "I want to do this."

A near death experience. Was that what it had taken him, to become fully invested in this job, Harry wondered? Yes, he thought it might have been.

His had come in Baghdad. He had been beaten and questioned, tortured until there was not an inch of his body which did not sting or ache. Junior field agent at the time, he had seen his superior and one of his colleagues shot in the head before him and he had pissed himself as he knelt there, in the sand, thinking that these thoughts he was having now would be his last. His whole body had shaken as his captor had held a gun to his head. Such unbelievable shaking. It had felt like every single part of his body was shaking. His arms, body, heart. It was just an adrenaline response, Juliet had explained, as they had stood belly-to-belly afterwards – the one and only time they had ever just held one another. He would be okay. It would pass. The most important thing was that he hadn't broken.

He had decided then, however, in the hollow moment after the cavalry had come riding in and he had realised he was going to live, that he was going to do this properly, from now on. It wasn't just a thrill-ride to him, anymore. It was something more. If you were going to die for something, you might as well do it right. Perhaps that was what Calum had felt, as he had leant against the side panel of the van bomb, hands over his head, silent in his relief. Perhaps that had been his turning moment.

"Take a day off," Harry had told him. "Be back the day after tomorrow. I'll need you helping Ruth to trace Price. We might have a lead on some old credit cards."

This was the test, to see if Calum would accept the demotion to helping someone else with desk work. The younger officer had just nodded, however, and readily agreed. "Yes sir," he had said, in a tone which told Harry that – whatever task he was assigned to, from now on – he would be working to the best of his ability. Surveillance would be surveilled the hell out of. Analysis would be analysed until he could analyse no more. Officer Reid's moody sulking would be a thing of the past. And so would the menial tasks which he had been sulking about, Harry thought to himself. Calum had earned the right to be placed in one department, to know where he stood in the team. He was a good officer. Harry would recognise that.

Calum was still in this evening, Harry noted, as he stepped in through the glass security doors. As it was past four o' clock, the whole team were officially free to go home. Night staff of two junior analysts and a field officer from C, who was going to be earning a ridiculous bonus for his troubles, (something Harry never got, for working Christmas,) would be tiding them over until six o' clock tomorrow morning, at which point Dimitri would take the helm. He, one junior field officer and three analysts would be watching over the Grid for the whole day. Nightshift would work again tomorrow evening and then people would resume their normal schedules on the twenty-sixth.

Ruth, Calum, Erin, himself and Tariq were all off. Tariq was going to visit family, for their 'midwinter, non-religious celebrations'. As for the others, well, Harry had no idea what they were doing. He twice considered asking Ruth if she fancied joining him and Wes for Christmas lunch and both times turned tail at the last minute. She probably had plans by now, he reasoned, as he spotted her talking to Calum across the Grid – miming something which looked like it had antlers. She was probably busy.

As she caught sight of him, however, her eyes lit up. She motioned for him to come over.

Ever willing, Harry padded across the Grid towards them, bidding a 'Goodnight' and 'Merry Christmas' to two exiting staff as he went.

"Harry," Ruth spoke his name, then ducked under her desk and re-emerged with armfuls of bags.

Harry's eyes widened.

"Oh."

"You asked me to get some things for Wes, yesterday," she said, softly, in response to his surprise. "You told me you had a meeting this morning and wouldn't be free until later..." she raised an eyebrow, clearly enquiring as to whether he had gone senile or not.

"Oh," Harry shook his head. He had. Indeed he had. He had just spent the last twelve hours in such paroxysms of worry, over the meeting with the Home Secretary and Ilya Gavrik that he had utterly forgotten about it all. "Of course. Thank you, Ruth." He looked down at the sheer amount of bags. "How much did you buy?" he added, as an afterthought. "I only said a few."

"He's eleven, Harry," Ruth reprimanded, shortly. "He can't just have a few presents."

"Yeah, you need to fill the entire diameter of the tree," Calum chipped in, miming the required diameter with outstretched hands. "Needs to look good."

"Right," said Harry, as they both smiled, clearly considering him schooled in the art of making Christmas for young children.

"Oh yes," Ruth dug in her pocket, remembering something. Withdrawing a credit card, she handed it over, giving a smile. "This is yours."

Harry took it as Calum became suddenly very interested in the nothing that was happening on the other side of the room and hastened to go over and investigate it. Ruth watched him go then turned back to smile at Harry, now trying to balance all of his bags in his arms and grip the credit card between two fingers.

"You really shouldn't have gone to so much bother," Harry said softly, as the warmth in her eyes grew slightly.

"It wasn't."

"This is a lot of presents."

"It was not trouble, Harry, honestly. It was quite fun, actually," she added, with a hint of a cheeky smile, "running around London with a platinum credit card."

Harry stayed quiet, choosing not to point out that, if she married him, she could have her own platinum credit card and spend him into bankruptcy, should she so wish. He doubted he could bring himself to deny her.

"Calum is suitably impressed," Ruth continued, nodding towards the card.

"And yourself?" he asked, the words just tumbling out before he could stop himself.

Ruth watched him pensively, for a moment, the smile lingering around her lips and eyes. What he had said was a bit of a flirt, Harry thought, but he seemed to have struck lucky. For once, Ruth seemed in the mood for a flirt. She seemed more cheerful all round than usual, actually. Her cheeks were rosy pink, possibly from the eggnog they had been sharing out at Erin's desk, before the Section Chief had headed home for the night. Her eyes were brighter blue. She looked happy, he realised, with dawning realisation – and a hint of pleasure at the thought that it might be them fixing themselves which had brought her joy.

"It's not one of the most important qualities, in a man," she eventually stated, in response to his question. "But I suppose it's nice to flash around, every now and then."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"No one has ever accused me of being flash before, Ruth."

She gave a soft half-snort of laughter, then stopped herself, forcing her face back into a serious expression. "No, quite right. I've never seen you do anything ostentatious. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you throw your weight around at all."

"It's not flash if its not for personal gain," he countered, a little defensively.

She eyed him a few seconds longer, then conceded on this point, with a little bob of her head.

They both stood in silence for a few moments, then she sighed and turned back to her desk. Harry was just reading in her movements that she was ready to go, and was just gathering himself to head back through to his office and do the same, when she lifted her head again and caught him with one word and those piercingly light eyes.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning back to her, quickly.

"Would you like to come over, for Christmas?" she asked, her words tumbling out more quickly than they had been, just moments before. Harry could taste the nerves on them and the care behind it was delicious. The way she was watching him made his heart clench, inside his chest. "I'm having a few people around. Erin's coming, because her mother's out of town this year and she could do with someone else to help watch after Rosie, Calum's coming to help me cook dinner for us all and Malcolm will be there as well."

Harry stared.

Christmas off. And with his family.

"I'll have to bring Wes," he managed to stammer, after a moment. "And the dog."

"Malcolm has agreed to watch any children and beagles that happen to be in your possession, in the event that we all get called in." Ruth shifted, playing with the cuffs of her jumper, watching him with quiet expectation. "I'd love to have you all there, anyway. Two of those presents are from me, by the way," she added, nodding to the pile. "One for Wes, one for you."

Harry glanced down then up at her again, surprised and overcome and quite deeply in love.

"I haven't got you anything," he admitted, then mentally slapped himself for saying anything. He still had a few hours before the shops closed. Smooth moves, Pearce, he thought to himself.

Ruth, however, didn't look at all fazed. Giving a little smile down at her feet and up again, she cleared her throat and went back to her desk, gathering up her things, pulling her coat on and slinging a bag over her shoulder.

"Just be there tomorrow," she told him, with a secret glint in her eye. "That can be my Christmas present."

Harry stared at her with unabashed love, for a moment, then finally managed to strangle out a single word.

"Okay."

.


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18 – Second Chance_

_._

_December 25, 2011_

.

The morning passed in a haze of nerves that Ruth could not solely attribute to the preparation for her Christmas afternoon. Calum arrived at half past nine, Christmas jumper donned and one to spare – a present for her, he insisted, then insisted she wear it for the rest of the day. Together, they did a last sweep of her living room for anything that a six year old and a ten year old could use as a lethal weapon and then set to with the cooking.

Calum, it turned out, was rather adept in the kitchen. It came from many years of living by himself, he admitted to her, as they prepared a turkey and a ham, and several vegetarian options for Malcolm who had took complaint with a stomach ulcer, recently, and wasn't eating much meat. When one lived by oneself, one had to learn to be self sufficient. No woman to help me in the kitchen, he explained, winking at her suggestively.

They formed up most of lunch by the time Erin and Rosie arrived, at just past twelve. Erin looked frazzled and admitted to Ruth – as she tumbled in the door, laden with toys she had been told she simply must bring along – that she had been up since six o' clock in the morning. Calum swung in to the rescue, once more, seizing the six year old and sweeping her outside to play with her new football while Erin wearily turned to Ruth and offered to help making dinner. Taking pity on her exhausted Section Chief, Ruth poured her a glass of wine and pointed to the couch, where Erin gladly retired to.

By the time Malcolm arrived, at one, everything was more or less in order for their meal, at two. The meat was in, the veg was sitting on the side, ready to be slotted in at the appropriate time. There were festive handmade rolls, courtesy of Calum – who was looking more metrosexual by the moment as he allowed Rosie to tie small bows into his hair – an assortment of snacks, purchased form a local caterer, and several other bits and bobs, including Christmas crackers, which they had had to stow on the countertops to prevent Rosie from setting them off prematurely.

As she stood aside and let Malcolm into the hall, Ruth gave a heavy sigh and a grin.

"Hectic?" the ex-technical officer asked, taking one look at her and one listen to the sound of Christmas television and Rosie in the background.

"Oh, insane," Ruth threw her arms apart and welcomed him into a hug, which Malcolm accepted, giving her a kiss on the cheek before pulling back.

He appraised her, in that way only an old friend could do – someone who had seen her at all the worst and bets bits of her life.

"You look well, Ruth," he told her, eventually.

Ruth blushed slightly, realising that she was hardly looking all that well put together at all. There was flour on her cheek and she was wearing a pair of old jeans and that horrid Christmas jumper, of Calum's. Her hair was loose and slightly curled with the humidity of the kitchen. What Malcolm must have meant, then, she realised, was she looked 'happy'. 'Happy' being all-round better than 'well', she smiled in response to the compliment.

"Thank you." She looked over him back. "You've lost weight."

"Stomach problems," he admitted.

"I've put some things on specially for you," Ruth told him, "let me take your coat and you can come on through."

She was just about to help him through to the living room and make the rounds of introduction when the doorbell rang again. With a peak of nerves, she spun on the spot, then spun back to face Malcolm

"Oh," she blustered, "I should get that. Harry. Just, um," she cleared her throat and gave a nervous half smile, "hang on."

Cursing the fact that she had not managed to change into something a little more respectable, or had time to sort her hair, she hastily scrubbed the flour from her face, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open again.

As she had expected, Harry stood on the doorstep.

She didn't even have time to greet him, however, before something hit her around waist level and another thing hit her around shin level.

"Ruth!" Wes flung his arms around her waist. "I love the presents. I love them."

Harry the beagle jumped around her ankles, scrabbling with his paws to get purchase on her jeans.

"Oh, hello," she greeted both of them, a little surprised at the vehemence of their attack. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you!" Wes grinned at her, in that childlike way ten year olds did – their adult teeth still slightly too big for their faces. "Harry said that the presents were from him too but I know they were from you because they were the things I told you about, the other week. 'Sides," Wes intoned, looking back over his shoulder at Harry, who had finally made his approach unto the door – now unbarred by writhing child and beagle, "Harry's terrible at lying."

Ruth raised her eyes to him.

"Is he now?"

Harry shrugged at her, with what must have been an 'innocent' expression on his face. It failed, however, because the beagle chose that point to run back over to him and greet him to – despite having arrived with him just moments before.

"Oh stop it, you dozy animal," he grunted, frowning down at the animal. "You know me – you live with me!"

Ruth laughed softly and stood to one side, shepherding Wes in and allowing Harry to pass her in the narrow hallway. He was wearing his thick grey coat, as per usual, but loose chinos rather than black trousers and a jumper rather than a shirt. He looked younger, somehow, out of the shirt collar and tie, and he smelt wonderful. As he passed her, she picked out the faint scent of aftershave as well as his usual soap. As she closed the door behind them, flicking the lock over – despite this probably being the most secure house in Britain, at this moment in time – her eyes caught on his and he smiled.

"Thanks for having us." He offered out a bottle of wine. Nice wine, Ruth noticed, raising her eyes slightly at the label.

"You didn't have to-," she began, but Wes greeting Malcolm interrupted them at this point.

"Your name is Malcolm. I remember you."

Harry and Ruth looked quickly back over, Ruth glad of the dimness of the corridor which hid her slightly red cheeks. She and Harry, losing themselves in each other's gaze again. It was becoming almost stereotypical. Malcolm, however, didn't seem to have noticed. He was busy smiling down at Wes Carter, fondness in his eyes.

"Indeed. We met at your father's thirty eighth birthday."

"You let me play with a camera on a pen!"

Malcolm glanced guiltily over at Harry, who frowned slightly at this unauthorised use of MI5 equipment.

"Er, yes... that may have been me."

Harry unclipped Harry the beagle's lead and the dog trotted over to investigate Ruth's shoe rack – filled to capacity today, with all the visiting shoes and probably at optimal foot smell. His master, meanwhile, was approaching his old colleague and his new charge, at the other end of the hall. Ruth watched them all with interest, wondering exactly how this was going to pan out.

"Causing trouble, as usual?" Harry asked, coming to a half next to his old technical officer and raising an eyebrow. Strictly speaking, he shouldn't have been there. Strictly speaking, spooks and ex-spooks were supposed to cut all contact and never see each other again. There were different rules for old friends, however, and Ruth had never known Harry to put aside the right thing to do simply for protocol. Here, it seemed, he was no different. The frown fading from his face, he extended a hand towards Malcolm, a smile tilting his lips back and up. "It's good to see you, Malcolm."

"It's good to be here, Harry. Not sure that I'm strictly sure I should be here," he admitted, "Official Secrets acts being what they are."

"Nonsense," Harry shook his head, clapping Malcolm's arm and releasing him from the handshake to lean back to his previous position, beside Wes. "All of us would swear blind that we'd never worked with you before in our lives," he assured the old technical officer. "And, knowing your talents with a paper trail and a computer, they'd find it hard to prove."

"And I've got this, if they want to take you," Wes added, drawing a water pistol from over his back and aiming it at Malcolm.

Malcolm looked mildly alarmed.

"Good, isn't he?" Harry commented. "He'll be joining the team by next July."

Wes looked up at Harry. "Can I really join the team?"

"No, you can't join the team." Harry nodded over at Ruth, who quickly hid the silly smile that covered face at the sight of Harry and anything domestic. "Go take your shoes off," he told Adam's son, "and Ruth will show you where all the food is. And put the gun away before anyone mistakes you for a terrorist."

Giving a nod, the boy rushed over to the shoe rack and kicked off muddy trainers, which Ruth leant down and arranged in a less destructive manner – countering Harry's apology with a little shake of her head. Then, touching Wes lightly on the back, she guided him towards the living room.

"Come on, we'll go introduce you to the others and then we can get some food sorted."

"I'm starving! I've been starving _all day_. Harry wouldn't let me eat anything, since breakfast, because he said I'd spoil my lunch."

"He's probably right."

"Harry _always_ thinks he's right."

"Let's go see the others, Wes."

.

As they left the hallway, Ruth overheard the last snatches of the two old spooks' conversation.

"He really is his father's son, isn't he?"

"Yes. I see a little more of Adam in him every day."

.

The rest of the morning went smoothly. Despite the age gap of three and a half years, Rosie and Wes got along well, revelling in a shared love of games consoles, football, and causing as much damage as was humanely possible to a small London townhouse. By the time lunch came around, they had both been relegated to the garden, with Calum, who was more than happy to get muddy and exhausted, while the adults retired to the living room and the kitchen.

Erin and Malcolm became fast friends, discussing cold war radar systems, which she had done her project on at University and he had specialised in adapting. Holed up on the two armchairs, they lost themselves in technical jargon and port while Ruth dismissed herself to the kitchen to finish up the roasted vegetables, Harry the beagle at her feet, scrounging for titbits.

She had been there about five minutes, pottering around, when Harry (not the beagle) appeared at her shoulder, with an offer to help.

"I'm completely out of my depth in there," he told her, moving to stand at her side, by the sink. "They've moved on from electro-superconductors to Chaucer."

Ruth gave a short laugh, catching the smile on Harry's face out of the corner of her eye and knowing, for a fact, that he was lying – about the Chaucer, if not the electro-superconductors. Harry had done the same course that she had, albeit several years earlier, at the same University. He knew Chaucer inside out and back to front. He was more learned than he let on, her boss. She supposed it had served him well, over the years, to have people underestimate him. It was nice to be privy to the truth, however. It made her feel singled out. Special. His.

"Looking for more wine?" she asked, noting the empty glass he carried in his hand.

"Oh," Harry looked down at it, then up at her, and shook his head. "No." Reaching out, he put the glass down on the counter and moved to stand a little further away, looking out the window.

Hoping he hadn't got the wrong impression, and she wanted rid, Ruth turned her attention out there, too.

Calum, wearing a parka and one of Ruth's woolly hats, was up to his elbows in mud – playing goalie for the two children, at the end of the block's communal garden. With a streak of mud across each cheek and his hair plastered flat to his head, he looked a sight. He would catch his death of cold before the day was through, Ruth was fairly sure of it. Good thing he had brought that change of clothes and left his warm woollen Christmas jumper inside, to change into, she thought, smiling to herself at her reaction this morning, when he had told her he had brought a spare pair of jeans etc.

"He's good with kids," she commented, to Harry, who was watching, avidly – perhaps pondering his own missed opportunities as a father. "I think he was rather looking forwards to having them around, today. He doesn't have much family."

"None of us do, I suppose."

"No." Ruth mused on this for a moment.

Someone had once told her that the Service hired those with few family connections preferentially, over other applicants. The lack of ties, perhaps, made them committed officers, she supposed, but she couldn't imagine how it made them more balanced. She, certainly, felt calmer when she was around the people she cared about. The very worst times of her life were when she was split suddenly away from them all. Like when she had left Harry, that day on the pier. She had cried for days. She had tried several times to come back, getting all the way to the airport before common sense prevailed and she turned back, afraid that if she returned he would be in danger again. She had never felt so alone, or so completely disconnected from the world.

Perhaps the Service chose them that way because they needed their people to have the urge to pull together – to fill the hole that family left with a tightly knit team. Ruth supposed it could be possible. Apart from Tariq and Harry, everyone on the team was an only child. Few had two living parents. Only Harry and Erin had children. They were all lacking an extended network of support. Perhaps they had all been chosen because they fit a profile – because they would naturally pull together and protect each other for a lack of something else out there, in the world.

Whether it had been orchestrated for the benefit of the Security Services or not, however, the team was Ruth's family now and she didn't regret it. They fit well together, Ruth thought, looking back from the children and Calum to Harry, who was standing silently by her side. She and the team, and maybe – one day – she and Harry and Wes, fit well together. She would like to think that he would let her in and let her help raise him in the way Adam would have wanted. It would be a second chance for both of them.

"Can I help with anything, in here?" Harry asked, eventually, nodding to the food in the oven.

Ruth shook her head, giving him a soft smile.

"No, no. You're a guest. Go and relax."

"I've been told I have trouble doing that," Harry informed her, in such a conspiratorial tone that she laughed out loud.

"Yes, I expect you have," she managed, eventually, after time had dulled her mirth. She expected Harry had been told many a time to relax, or chill, or stand down. She doubted any of the suggestions would have stuck, however. Harry was primed for action after years of practice. She supposed the only time he was relaxed, now, was when he slept. Over time, though, that could change. Over time, she thought, he could learn to trust a little more. She wasn't expecting anything right away. She knew what she was getting into – Harry barely trusted himself, after all, let alone anyone else – but she wanted to be with him anyway. She wanted everything this entailed, not just the easy bits.

If he was willing to be bold, like she had been, if he was willing to step forwards to and risk a little, then this could actually work.

"I'd prefer to be through here," he admitted, after a silence of a few seconds. "If I'm not underfoot, that is."

She eyed him, picking out his hazel eyes and rolled up sleeves, scanning the fair hair across the back of his forearms and the smooth skin underneath them – skin she had not been given much opportunity to see, before. He would have to try very hard before she would ever consider him underfoot, she thought. She was automatically programmed to think he was lovely.

"You can stay," she told him, peeling the last brussel sprout and placing it in a pot, then sticking the pot on the boil.

"Good."

Harry smiled.

A few semi-awkward moments passed.

Then, Ruth loosened her shoulders and leant back against the countertop and he seemed to relax a little too.

They talked about Wes for a while, as she peeled the carrots and stuck them on the boil. Then they talked about work, for a short time, as she added the butter and cream to the mashed potatoes and he did the brute force part, mashing them to a fine pulp. They talked about the cross searches they had left running and Ruth made several slightly pessimistic comments about the state they would all be in, after a day in the company of Dimitri and the junior analysts. Then, conversation slowly turned around to their dinner the other night.

"I kissed you," Ruth said.

Harry nodded, slowly. "Yes, you did."

"I probably shouldn't have done that."

Harry looked mildly worried.

"I mean," she frowned at herself, "I certainly wanted to but I shouldn't have just done it. I should have asked, or made sure that I was allowed, or-," her words sort of lost momentum there and lodged in her throat.

She had been trying to say that she shouldn't have done it after all they had been through – that it had been insensitive of her to move forwards so suddenly without checking that he still wanted the same thing. Thinking you knew what someone wanted and knowing what someone wanted, after all, were two very different things. She and Harry had been caught out by that one in the past. She had been trying to apologise and confirm what was going on between them, this new 'moving forwards' thing, but the words just wouldn't seem to form.

Across from her, however, Harry seemed to catch on to where she was heading without her needing to finish her sentence.

Shifting a little closer, he leant his head in, making the conversation instantly intimate.

"Ruth, I want this," he told her, sliding a hand across so that it was lying next to hers, his pinkie finger brushing against hers. "I don't know if I've given the wrong impression, or-,"

"-You haven't," she smiled, quickly, sliding her finger over his and squeezing slightly. "Honestly, you haven't. I just," she breathed out, heavily, gathering herself. "I just want to be sure that we're both on the same page here. We're so often not and I don't want to..." she drifted off.

Harry exhaled slowly.

The tension in the air had suddenly increased hundredfold. She could smell him, somehow more potently than before. She could feel the heat radiating off of him. His physical presence was there, more strongly than it had been earlier. And she could feel herself, too. She could feel her own body, her skin, her heart, as if it were beating just for him. Everything seemed just for him.

"What page are you on?" he asked her, gently.

Ruth bit the inside of her lip, then released it. "I want more than this. I..."

"I want more too."

They were so close and she wanted him so much that all of Ruth's composure snapped, deep inside. Taking Harry's hand from the countertop, she gave him a little tug, murmuring for him to 'come'. Glancing over at the half-closed door living room, which shielded them from view – and then back out at the garden, in which Calum was still fully involved with the two children (now in a game of tag – she pulled him over to the other end of the kitchen, to the pantry door. Nudging it open, she tugged him inside and then pushed the door shut behind them. Inside, Harry looked around, brow furrowed.

"Why are we here? Do you need more vegetables, or-,"

"-oh, shut up, Harry," she murmured, reaching up, to pull his face to hers.

Their lips met wetly and inaccurately, at first, the movement more a collision of lust than a kiss. As they pressed further into each other, however, not bothering to draw back, they grew in confidence. Ruth slid her hands around Harry's neck, guiding him better against her. Harry leant closer, pushing her gently back against the wall of the pantry-come-utility room. It was wonderful, thought Ruth, her mind seething with thoughts and unbridled emotion. Harry's hot, sweet breath on her lips; Harry's harshening breaths against her skin; it was wonderful. They felt wonderful.

Their lips parted further, Harry hungrily pressing down into Ruth as Ruth pressed hungrily back up at him. She had to stand on her toes to get the right angle but it was well worth the effort. As he pressed her back against the pantry counter, their tongues brushed lightly and his hands slipped to her neck, then to her waist. He was strong, stronger than she had anticipated, somehow. And solid. He was solid, Ruth thought, with a thrill through her entire body. He was solid and here and this was not a fantasy. This was real. This was wonderful. This was lovely. Harry pressing into her as she leant back against the wall, Harry against her, mouth against hers, fingers around her.

There was a handle of a cupboard draw sticking uncomfortably into her lower back, her hair was rubbed up the wrong way as he wound his fingers into it, but she couldn't have cared less. She couldn't have cared less that her breaths were short and wanton, or that her body was almost shaking as she gripped onto him tightly. She couldn't have cared less that it was dark all around them – the only light coming from the kitchen and falling over baskets of clean laundry, boxes of lightbulbs and the numerous other things that Ruth had stowed in here over the years. It wasn't perfect, but neither were they and they had never professed to be. They were not perfect, but they were real and here and this felt perfect to her, because she had spent so long imagining it. Not exactly as she was experiencing it now, obviously, but imagining him nonetheless.

This was wonderful.

As Harry's hand moved to cup her face closer to his, drawing back for a breath across from her, the sound of the garden door slamming open and closed jerked them sharply back to reality.

Calum and the two children. Back inside.

Shit.

Ruth turned her head around, ascertaining that the pantry door was still almost-closed, ajar and shielding them from view. To her great relief, it was. They were out of view, then, but not out of ear range. Turning back to Harry, she murmured 'sh', very quietly, whilst hoping that the people outside would not have a sudden desire to come and fetch some laundry or a light bulbs. Against her, Harry held silent too, his breaths instantly shallowing and becoming soft. An old pro at stealth cupboard snogging, thought Ruth, having to lift her hand to cover her mouth to keep her own breaths secret.

It was not long they had to stay that way, however. Soon, the sound of Calum and the two children faded from the kitchen – disappearing through into the living room, where she could hear them all loudly discussing their football game (and, no doubt, dripping water all over her carpets and furniture).

Beside her, Harry let out a low, long breath of relief. His hands slipped down, from where they had been holding her waist, to rest on the counter on either side of her body. To her silent delight, however, Ruth noted that he did not put any distance between their torsos. His belly was still pressed into hers. His slightly aroused groin pressed against her abdomen.

"That was close," he murmured softly, and there was a very long tense moment where neither of them were not sure what to say – a moment which was broken by the meeting of their eyes and the sudden mirth which ran through both of them. It must have been the mixture of adrenaline and emotion in the air, thought Ruth, feeling exhilaration like she had not felt in years run through her. Whatever it was, however, it was cut short by his leaning back in and pressing a soft kiss to her lips – the first kiss he had ever initiated with her, Ruth realised, as his lips massaged hers gently.

It had always been her, before. A kiss as goodbye. A kiss as thank you. A kiss borne of pure lust and opportunity. But now, it was a kiss _for_ her, _from_ him.

She accepted it gratefully, moving her forehead in to rest against his once they were done.

"That was nice," she murmured, after half a minute had passed and neither of them had moved an inch.

"Good," he replied, after a long pause. "In that case, we should do that again sometime."

Ruth gave a soft half-laugh, into his neck. She was blushing bright red and his heart was beating faster than she had ever heard a human heart beat. Both of them were shoved up against each other in the confines of a pantry – of all places – but it felt right. It was better than any fantasy either of them had ever had because it was real. And neither of them woke, to a start, to find themselves alone in bed.

Another long moment passed, however, and reality broke in.

"We should probably get back out there," Ruth sighed, tilting her head back to meet Harry's gaze – which was very dark, in the half-light of the cupboard. "They'll send out a search party."

"Probably."

"I should go first," she added, her cheeks heating even further. "If you want a moment to... um... compose yourself."

Harry shifted slightly, perhaps ascertaining the state of his own body. He then gave her a slight wince. "Probably," he answered, again.

Ruth's lips twitched back in a smile.

"Okay." Another sigh. "Right."

Then, casting one last long look up at her companion and giving his hand a quick squeeze, she slipped away from his side and set to straightening her clothes.

The exit of the pantry was done in as much a ladylike way as it was possible to exit a pantry cupboard. As she stepped back into the kitchen, Ruth was relieved to see that there was nobody in sight to ask awkward questions, or make awkard observations. In fact, everything was just as she had left it, except for three pairs of muddy shoes at the back door. Breathing a sigh of relief, she went back to her business around the kitchen, checking on the meat, turning over the vegetables, and wasn't joined by anybody until a minute or so later, when Calum stuck his (now drier) head back inside to ask where Harry had got himself to.

As if on cue, Harry emerged from the pantry (fully composed and completely nonchalant) carrying a tablecloth.

"This the one you were looking for?" he asked Ruth, innocently.

If she had ever doubted his abilities as a spy, she doubted no longer.

"That's brilliant," she told him, then motioned over to Calum. "Why don't you two set the table."

.

Their eyes caught as he left the room – the gaze and the taste of him, on her lips, the only evidence that anything had happened in her pantry cupboard, at all.

.


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19 – The right thing_

_._

_December 25, 2011_

.

Lunch and the rest of Christmas Day, at Ruth's house, went well – surprisingly, really, as Calum had been in charge of the roast meats. They gathered and ate and played a few board games with the tele on in the background for the children. Harry, for his bit, tried his best to keep Wes out of mischief and the dog from snaffling the snacks off of the table. He tried to put aside his unease, about leaving the Grid in the hands of Dimitri, reminding himself routinely that they had spent the last week preparing for the running of the office today.

They had backup staff for their backup staff, he reminded himself. The skeleton team had been briefed for every eventuality and had instruction in the form of a large and very detailed handover document, which Harry updated weekly, should any diplomatic problems arise. And as for the analysis staff, well Harry didn't have to worry about them. Ruth had set them right before leaving, yesterday. She had stocked them up to the eaves with tasks. Everyone who wasn't on Price had a set protocol to follow, with incoming intel and everything was organised. Everything was under control. He could relax.

It wasn't easy for the first few hours. His pleasant but surprising encounter with Ruth, in the pantry of her little kitchen, did nothing to help his stress levels. Slowly, however, as the afternoon wore on and his phone did not buzz once, with a 'redflash' – and as Ruth didn't change her mind about moving closer to him and run away again – he began to get there. His breaths stopped quickening whenever anyone's phone buzzed. He stopped glancing over at the window and checking his email. He stopped worrying that Wes was going to destroy Ruth's house (because it was a foregone conclusion that he was going to destroy Ruth's house. Harry figured he would just have to pay for whatever didn't make it, at the end of the day). Taking his highly-strung nature in hand, he sat back and accepted two glasses of wine, and two whiskeys, and started getting a little chattier with his junior staff than he probably should have done.

He took part in the conversations. He laughed at the jokes. He played the games – his and Calum's team winning Trivial Pursuit with a staggering lead. He tried his best to act like a normal human being having a normal day off. And it worked. Like a spy caught up in his own legend, he fell into the pattern of patterns of Harry the friend, Harry the companion rather than Harry the boss. And, by the time the day came to an end and people started trailing off home, he found himself sitting comfortably in his new role, in Ruth's living room, not wanting to leave. He liked being Harry the companion, he thought, as Ruth disappeared next door to see Malcolm and Calum off. He didn't want to be her boss again, tomorrow. He didn't want to be her boss again, tonight.

His head, however, was foggy through the alcohol he had consumed and he knew he was in no position to make a move. With Ruth, any seduction was going to have to be planned and perfectly executed, so she didn't pull away. Though they hadn't been planned that morning, Harry reminded himself, as he heard the door close next door and Ruth lock it quietly. They hadn't been planned when she had pulled him into her pantry and pulled him up against the wall and kissed him hungrily. They hadn't been planned then and it had felt wonderful.

They were in a different situation than earlier, now, he reminded himself, listening to Ruth arranging the shoes at the front door, feeling his head swim slightly with the whiskey in his bloodstream. (It was affecting him more than he had hoped it would. He should have lightened up on the drinks, towards the end, stopped trying to match Calum in everything he did. He wasn't thirty years old anymore. He wasn't even forty). Unlike earlier that morning, both him and Ruth were a little drunk and Harry knew he had to be more cautious about what happened between them. He didn't want anything to face any choices that they were not in their right minds to make, nor do anything that they would regret in the morning. Still, he mused, with a little smile to himself, he would like to kiss her again, even if it was only goodnight.

He was busy thinking about how exactly he would go about that – how he would get Wes up from where he was napping and ready to leave and then get Ruth by herself, without the young boy seeing them embrace (because he would never hear the end of it if he did) when Ruth appeared back in the doorway, her expression rather more serious than it had been when she had left him, to say goodbye to Malcolm and Calum.

Harry's heart sank a little.

What had gone wrong, he wondered, anxiety stirring within him too. He had heard her talking to Malcolm, while Calum had gone ahead to talk to the taxi driver. What had the ex-technical officer said this time, he wondered, which had made her draw away? Don't do this to me, he thought, leaning slightly forward in his chair. Don't run away again, Ruth, please.

"They made it off, then?" was all he managed out loud.

Ruth looked up and nodded slowly, lowering her hand so that only the fingertips rested against her lower lip. She still looked pensive but Harry was pleased to see the anxiety leave her gaze. She wasn't panicking, Harry realised, steadying his nerves. She wasn't running. Not yet, anyways.

"Malcolm's dropping Calum at his on the way home," she eventually told him, in answer to his question. "Probably a good thing he's there to keep an eye on him. He's quite drunk, you know. Nearly impaled himself on the front gate on his way to the taxi."

"I'm not surprised," Harry told her, honestly. "He's drank more than half of my whiskey."

The corner of Ruth's lip stretched slightly, but it was only a shadow of a smile.

Harry breathed out slowly.

"Ruth, what's wrong?" he asked, as she continued to hover in the doorway rather than approach the couch where he was sitting.

"Its nothing," she shook her head, looking bashfully down at her feet as she folded her arms. "Honestly, Harry, it was just something Malcolm said."

Harry felt a surge of animosity towards his oldest colleague. Why was it always him? What was it that he said, to Ruth, that could make her draw back this way? How did they always manage to get so close to moving forwards, only to be pulled apart?

_It wasn't fair!_

"He mentioned 'us', didn't he?" he asked her.

"Yes," Ruth admitted. "It made me think."

Harry looked pleadingly up at her. "Ruth..."

Something in her eyes softened and she stepped away from the doorway, moving further into the living room.

"Oh, Harry, I didn't mean it like that..." She walked over and sat gently down beside him, on the couch. Reaching out, she gently touched his forearm. "He wasn't making any smart remarks," she explained, pressing her fingertips gently into him. "He was just saying how pleased he was for us, how glad he was that we are able to be around one another again." She traced a circle on the back of his arm. "He said we both looked happier for it."

"Well he's right there," Harry told her, after a slight pause. "At least, he's right about me."

Ruth gave a shy smile. She had chosen to sit a little closer than she usually would have, Harry noticed, closer than she had sat earlier when the others had been here. She was voluntarily seeking intimacy. But how far could he push it?

Steeling himself for disappointment, Harry reached out his other hand and cautiously laid it on top of hers. To his enormous delight, Ruth did not flinch or pull away. In fact, she smiled a little. Sitting very still, she ran her thumb across his arm for half a minute or so more, then raised her big blue eyes to his.

"He said something else, as well," she admitted, her tone more shy than before.

"What?"

"He told me that our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt."

There was a heavy pause.

"Never had him down as a Shakespeare man," Harry quipped, eventually, to fill it.

"Nor me," Ruth admitted. "He was always good at turning a phrase, however. He is probably right..."

"Probably..."

Probably didn't come into it, thought Harry. Malcolm couldn't have found a more appropriate quote if he had tried. It summed their story up perfectly; doubts consuming them and pushing them apart, misery that could have been avoided by being braver. Just think of all the good years they could have had, he thought sadly, if they had been braver back then. The thought consumed him for just a few seconds, however, before he turned his mind to a much more promising prospect; the good that they had ahead.

For the first time in a long time, Harry was looking at a future which was not lonely or bleak. He had a woman he loved, a child who needed him and a dog (neither of the latter he hadn't intended, but there you go). Things were looking up and he wasn't going to let anything ruin it. He was going to do this properly, he decided. He was not going to give Ruth any reason to spook, or run away.

Running his thumb into the hollow beneath her wrist, he stroked her, feeling the blood race fast under her skin. Ruth's blood, Ruth's heart, racing just for him. He was incredibly lucky, he thought as she parted her fingers, allowing his to slide between.

"Is this okay?" he asked, tentatively, as their fingers locked into place, curling around the back of each other's hands. He wouldn't have asked with anyone else but this was Ruth and things were delicate. "I just wanted to make sure," he explained. "I didn't want to assume that I was allowed just because of... earlier."

"It's okay," Ruth told him then added, a little shyly, "I like it when you touch me."

It was only a tiny tease but, almost immediately, Harry felt his body respond. Blood flowed to its lower regions of his body, swelling his flesh, pulling his skin tighter. He could be fully hard in under a minute, if they didn't stop playing with each other, he thought, marvelling at the effect long-term denial could have, even in a man of his age. He would have to temper this. Temper this situation. He didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable, after all.

"I had a good time today," he said, changing the subject, feeling the pressure in his body subside a little as he kept his thoughts on more platonic matters. "I think everyone did. It can get oppressive, our only human contact being on the Grid. I know what protocol says about maintaining professional boundaries but I think there needs to be something else. Something more."

Ruth gave a small hum of agreement, in the back of her throat, but said nothing. Harry could feel heat in her gaze. She knew what he was doing. She knew that polite conversation was just a coping mechanism for his lust-addled body. Again, however, she did not run from the show of intimacy. Instead she delighted Harry by moving closer. Placing her weight on her free hand, she leant over the gap between them until they were only inches apart. Then carefully, chastely, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Harry swallowed, fighting the impulses running through him. Control or release? Temperance or abandon? The possibility of being with Ruth in reality, (as opposed to the fantasy of her that he conjured, alone in his bed, while rubbing himself to climax), was tantalisingly near. But he had to keep a hold on himself. He had resolved not to move too fast with this. He had resolved not to make another mistake, not to give her any reason to pull away. He had made a decision.

...but he did want her. So very, very much.

Across from him, Ruth watched his internal battle with unabashed fascination.

"I'm glad you had a good time," she told him, eventually, with just a hint of playfulness in her voice. "We should do it again, sometime."

Harry felt his cheeks heat slightly, felt more blood flow away from his brain and down between his legs.

"I'd like that," he told her, clearing his throat, looking down at their interlinked hands as he wondered how much longer he could last before the last shreds of his self control snapped. "You would have to ask me first, of course."

"I'm asking you now," she pointed out.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you are." Clearing his throat, Harry searched desperately for something more to say, something that would distract him from the growing need in his body for hers. "When for, though?" he eventually settled on, finding nothing else that made sense within his vocabulary.

"Well, I was considering New Years but I think I might be working."

"Schedules can be re-arranged," Harry mumbled, before he could fully stop himself.

A smile twitched Ruth's lips.

"I'm sure that's some sort of favoritism."

"I'm fairly sure no one will say anything,"

"Hm. Probably not."

"And if they do, I'm sure your boss won't mind," he added.

She smiled, glancing away.

This was flirting, thought Harry, watching her. This was definitely flirting. And what came after flirting, he asked himself, trying to remember this part from many, many years ago – from those long summers spent chasing the girls around his home town. He thought he could remember. After the flirting bit came the kissing bit.

He swallowed.

Ruth looked back over to him, eyes warm. She seemed to have come to some inner conclusion while she had been looking down, because the slight caution in her eyes which had been there during their flirtations was suddenly gone. She looked sure. She looked steady.

Slipping her fingers free from his, she reached out and touched his face, exploring the lines at the corner of his eyes first before following the angle of his cheekbone down, to his lips. It was like she was mapping him, Harry thought, as her thumb came to rest against his lips, palm ghosting over the place on her cheek it had laid all those years ago, when she kissed him goodbye on the wharf. It was like she was mapping all the differences that had occurred, between that time and now.

"I'd like to see you on New Years," she murmured, touching the tip of her thumb into the crease of his chin. "It would be nice to be selfish, for once..."

Their faces were just inches apart. Every fibre of Harry wanted to kiss her. He wanted _desperately_ to kiss her. Her blue eyes were flickering down to his lips and up to his eyes again. She looked like she wanted to kiss him too.

A very long ten seconds passed, then another. Then, unable to hold himself back any longer, Harry opened his mouth to ask for permission. "Ruth," he started, "can I-,"

He got no further, however. Taking his question as her own permission, Ruth leant forwards and bridged the distance between them, pressing her lips to his with such perfect abandon that Harry just melted into her.

There was no question of platonic greeting, in their kiss, no possibility of it being a thank you or a friendly goodbye. It was soft and tender, but powerful and surprisingly demanding. There was no question of what Ruth intended, as she cupped his face in her hands, drawing him closer – as she grazed his lower lip with her teeth. Her movements were sure, her hands steady and her skin flushed pink. Her lips were slightly parted, against his, as if begging him inside. She wanted him, Harry thought, with a thrill of pleasure. And, for the first time really, she was ready to let him see it.

Hands wrapped around the back of Harry's neck, she kissed him like he should have kissed her five years ago. And the world beyond her ceased to exist, for Harry. Suddenly, all he could feel was her; the heat of her, the excited tremor of her body as she pressed into him. All he could smell was her skin. All he could think was how marvelous she felt, how much better she felt than anyone else he had ever been with, because she felt like _her_. The little movements she made, the tiny breathy noises she whispered against his skin, were all unmistakably Ruth. How, Harry wondered, had he ever managed to make do with his imagination, all these years? The reality was a hundred times more wonderful, more beautiful, more perfect. She was glorious. She made everything in the room seem more vibrant, somehow, more real. The warmth of the fire, the scent of port in the half-full cup on the side table, the feel of the soft velvet throw they were sprawled atop; it all felt more vivid now that she was touching him. And Harry felt better too. Stronger, younger, more alive than he had in years.

For a few minutes, the world felt gloriously simple. There were no other considerations to make, no complicated choices, no life and death. Just Ruth, under his fingertips – Ruth, whose thigh he was stroking – Ruth, whose lips curved into a shy smile against he swept his hand up her side and brushed the soft swell of her breast.

She was wonderful.

And she seemed keen enough about him as well.

Responding to her eager hands at his neck and shoulders, Harry tipped them gently forwards into a pile of cushions that were stacked against one end of the couch, removing the need to balance from the equation, giving them more lee-way to explore one another with their hands. Shifting their bodies around until they were flush, he pressed his face into her neck and breathed her in, pressing kisses into her collarbone while she wrangled herself free from her woolly jumper.

He let her pull him closer, as she dropped it to the floor, let her wind her fingers into the back of his hair. It had been getting long. He had been wanting to get it shorn off again, but now he was reconsidering somewhat. She felt so good. She felt-,

Pulling her leg up onto the couch, Ruth slid down, pulling them into a more horizontal position against the cushions, and Harry faltered for a moment. Some gentlemanly instinct at the back of his mind was muttering that this was not entirely proper behaviour on his part, but her hands were insisting and he couldn't resist her long. He leant over, taking his weight on one arm and against the side of the couch, letting his belly press down into hers and his now quite swollen groin press into the side of her thigh – any doubts he might have had about whether that was allowed allayed by her reassuring whispers of his name, against the side of his neck, and the pressure her thigh against his hip, squeezing him closer.

Their kisses became steadily more frantic. His thoughts became steadily more fragmented. His hand was at her waist, then under her vest top stroking her back, then tilting her hips down into him as he pressed up.

Everything was moving faster and faster while, at the same time, each second became infinite. Each moment stretched on as he lost himself in sensation. He could taste it all at once; the salt of her neck just beneath her ear, the sweetness of her perfume, the scent of her, mixed with the scent of the room around them, mixed with his scent, in the air. Her lips tasted of raspberry. She was wearing some sort of balm. Her hair smelt of faintly fruity shampoo – a smell he had always thought was part of her perfume but, he found now, was quite a separate note. He breathed it all in, dizzy with lust and love, dizzy with the whiskey still lingering in his blood, dizzy with anticipation as she grew daring enough to rub up against him.

The sudden click of the clock on the mantelpiece startled them from their activities. Ruth's belly twitched and she flinched away from him, expression briefly reminiscent of a teenager caught out by a returning parent. As she pinpointed the source of the noise however and realised it didn't affect them, the expression faded away. Looking back to Harry, she gave a slightly shy smile.

"Hello."

Harry watched her, feeling blood rush past his ears, hearing the whoosh and surge of it. He was drunker than he had realised. Dizzy. "That's a very loud clock," he commented, nodding behind them.

Ruth's smile stretched slightly, then faded back, her eyes dancing over his.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" he asked, as his attention gravitated down, once more, to his hand, which was slid around the side of her ribs, to his wrist which was brushing against her breast, to the shadow of one very erect nipple, through the fabric. He wanted to take it in his mouth, run his tongue over it.

Slow down, his mind whispered at him, dimly through the fog of alcohol. Just slow down...

Ruth gave a long exhale, the shadows dancing across her body, clearly gathering herself.

"Do want to stay over here, tonight?" she asked, rather quickly.

Harry looked up in surprise.

He hadn't expected that.

"What?"

"I have a spare bedroom," she explained, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed pink along the crest, her lips beautifully red from their contact with his. "Wes is asleep in mine and it seems a shame for you to have to wake him and then have to try to get a taxi this time of night. Especially when there's plenty of room for you, here..." she trailed off, eyes searching desperately between his.

Harry watched her, not quite believing what was happening.

Stay over with her.

'Yes', 'please' and 'now' were the first words which came to mind. There was nothing he wanted more in the whole world than to follow her to bed and strip them of clothes, to explore one another's naked skin and couple themselves together until their combined lust was slated. He wanted to stay, his body was aching for release, but – he cautioned himself – staying over was a big step forwards and a huge leap from a snog on her couch. It had taken them nigh on six years to get to hand-holding. It was a bit of a rush to then jump to sex on the same day. This was a big deal, he reminded himself, for both of them – because of their history together. Ruth had always shied away from intimacy and he wasn't in the best state to manage the situation. His control and composure always slipped a little, when he was drunk, and he hadn't been expecting this to come of tonight, besides. This had all rather caught him off-guard and Harry wasn't a man who functioned well, off his guard. It had taken a lot of practice, over the years, to learn to improvise and he wasn't in the best state for it, tonight. He was drunk. He was emotionally overwrought.

He had to think about it logically, he told himself. He wanted to stay very much. He needed her desperately. But, he couldn't control this situation. And he couldn't let go of his control for fear of losing her. Too many times he had opened himself up and asked her for more and she had thrown it back at him because he had not done it right, because he had done it at the wrong time. He was programmed, deeper than he knew, to be cautious. He could not relinquish control. He could not risk failing her... he could not risk losing her.

Below him, Ruth watched his turmoil with enormous blue eyes, their blue almost ethereally light against huge, dark pupils. Harry wondered how drunk she was, for them to have dilated so – how much Dutch courage it had taken, he wondered, to pluck up the courage to ask him this. It did seem slightly out of character, considering the many years they had inched towards and away from each other. She must have had quite a lot. Thinking back, he couldn't remember her cradling more than three glasses of wine, during the day. But she wasn't a big drinker, he reminded himself. A few glasses might have been all it took. And if she was drunk, then he couldn't possibly stay.

Some form of resolution began to take hold, in the pit of his stomach.

She was drunk. He was drunk. She probably wasn't thinking completely straight and he certainly wasn't capable of monitoring this situation and making it right for them. He wasn't in control. If he stayed tonight, he thought, they would be reduced to some alcohol-induced fumble which she might use as an excuse to run away from him, in the morning. He had resolved, earlier, to take this slow and that was what he was going to do.

Forcing himself, against all the desires of his body, he rolled off her and pulled himself into a more upright seated position. There, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to sober himself up. Across the couch, Ruth faltered for a moment, then mirrored his position.

"Harry?" she asked, with a soft frown. "What's wrong?"

"This isn't right," he told her, screwing his eyes and rubbing them, before opening them again – the world unfortunately becoming no clearer by this method. "We shouldn't be doing this..."

Her expression shifted from one of warm expectation to one of mixed confusion and hurt. Harry felt a pang inside of him, at the sight. He didn't want to hurt her. This wasn't to hurt her. But it was the right thing to do, he told himself. They were both drunk and emotional and anything that happened between them, tonight, would be influenced by that.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to continue.

"We haven't talked about any of this, Ruth."

"Harry, you can stay," she interrupted him, softly. "I'd like you to stay."

"You haven't thought this through," he countered, lowering his hand from his face as he looked at her, across the couch. She was beautiful, in just a vest, milky skin of her shoulders and neck on show, dark hair contrasting beautifully against it. Clearing his throat, Harry forced himself on, hoping he sounded vaguely in control. He needed the control... "We're both drunk and emotional, right now," he told her. "Your judgement is impaired... And I don't want that to lead us to do anything trite, or stupid. I don't want you to regret this in the morning."

There was a pause, then Ruth frowned.

"You think staying with me tonight would be... stupid?" she asked slowly. Her expression had shifted, slightly, something around her eyes tightening.

"Yes," Harry nodded, glad she had understood the gist of his explanation. "I think we're both vulnerable, because of the situation and because of everything we have riding on this, because it's Christmas and neither of us want to be alone. But I think we should take a step back, to avoid making a mistake here. I know I should have said something before now," he added, "and I'm sorry, but I-,"

"You're s_orry_?"

Her voice cut through him, suddenly cold.

Her eyes, which had been warm ocean blue, had suddenly frosted over.

Harry sat very still, doubt fluttering through him. He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? His logic was bombproof. They were both slightly drunk. He didn't want to do anything too fast, that they would regret tomorrow. He knew, from experience, that moving too fast would only cause Ruth to run away. And he certainly wasn't ready for this. He was barely in control of himself right now. There was too much emotion, too much adrenaline, too much whiskey in his blood. That meant they should move slow, be careful, surely? He knew the situation was probably more complicated than it looked, but his slightly hazy brain was not allowing for further abstract thought. So, caught between thought and action, he just sat there, watching her nervously.

After a few long seconds, Ruth took it upon herself to move the situation on. Standing up violently from the couch, she strode away from him, across the room. For a moment, Harry thought she was going to storm out of the room without saying a word but, at the last moment, she stopped short and whipped around on her heel, glaring at him.

She was livid, anger set in her jaw and shoulders. Her eyes bright and wet with tears she was too angry to shed.

"You are such an _ass_!" she spat, words shaking slightly, through her rage. "Why did you have to do that? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Harry flinched.

That last comment had stung, more than he had thought words were capable of stinging him, anymore – and enough to make the doubt bite a little harder. He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? He was doing this for them, for her. This wasn't about him, was it? A tiny whisper inside of him was saying that it might be, that his drawing back might be more about his fear of relinquishing control, but he pushed it aside. Stop being a prat, he told himself, this is about exactly what it looked to be about. They were drunk. (He was drunk anyway and she was much lighter than him, so she must be too. Though, he supposed, she hadn't been indulging in the port and whiskey like himself and Erin and Calum...). Their judgement was impaired and he wasn't going to let drunken libido push them into a situation which they were not ready for.

"Ruth-," he started, tentatively, but she overrode him before he could think of the sentence that he wanted to form – the sentence that would explain everything and make it okay.

"How can you think that I'd regret this in the morning?" She asked, raising a hand to wipe away the single tear which had broken the barrier of her eyelids. "I was sat there, telling you that I wanted you to stay. How obvious do I have to be? And how can you not trust my judgement, after all of the years?" she added, voice rising in indignation. "After everything I have given to you, after everything I have _given up_, for you, don't I deserve just a little bit of your trust? God, Harry, how can you just-," she cut herself off, looking away from him as she wiped her cheek again with one slightly shaking hand.

There was a long silence.

Harry sat still in it, not entirely sure what to do after such an outburst. Ruth never shouted at him before, not once, through the terrible things they had seen and done, over the years. This was unheard of, in their strange, twisted history together. Harry had no idea what to say. She had called him a bastard. She had said he didn't trust her. But he did. He really did. It was himself he didn't trust. And his drunken judgement.

"Ruth..." he began, after another half minute had passed in silence and she had wiped another tear or two from the rise of her cheek – her soft, warm cheek, which he had been caressing, just two minutes ago. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Don't," she interrupted, harshly. "I don't want to hear it. I don't think I can face another rendition of '_what you really meant'_."

"I just want to do the right thing, here."

"Oh, screw you, Harry," she snarled, glaring at him across the room. "Screw self-control and self-denial, and the greater bloody picture. You're a coward. That's what this is about. It's not about you doing the right thing, it's about you running away from anything that could possibly make you feel!"

"Ruth-,"

"Shut up!"

She closed her eyes, standing still for a moment, clearly trying to stop herself from breaking down completely – Harry could see the fracture lines. She stood frozen, caught in limbo, halfway between him and the door. The quickened pulse of her heartbeat, in her neck, the fast rising and falling of her breaths in her chest; it all seemed incredibly detailed, as if he were watching it all in slow-motion. Slowly, she breathed out, then in again, and finally seemed to come to some conclusion. Hand dropping from her tear-dampened cheek, she gestured to the couch.

"I'm going to bed," she told him, her voice empty in its effort to sound calm. "You can sleep through here. You'll never get a taxi this time of night."

Harry closed his eyes, feeling his head swim. The room swayed uncomfortably around him.

"Ruth-"

"There are sheets and a spare blanket in the closet next to the upstairs bathroom. Be careful when you open the door. It creaks and you won't want to wake Wes, in the next room." She paused, her glare challenging him to say something. Harry – not sure what he was to contest – said nothing, however, and, after a long few seconds, Ruth turned and strode to the door. "And, by the way," she added, as she reached it and paused, her hand wrapped around the doorframe. "I'm not drunk. I've only had two glasses of wine since dinner. And I don't believe that anything that could happen between us could be stupid, or trite."

His stomach churned.

Shit.

"That's not what I meant..." he tried, in an almost-whisper, but her eyes just flashed with the same anger he had seen earlier and he fell silent again.

"If its not what you meant," she stated, with cold resentment in every syllable, "then you shouldn't have said it." She watched him for a very long few seconds, clearly considering saying something else, then drawing back at the last moment. Then she snapped "goodnight", turned and left the room.

Harry listened to her climb the stairs with a stomach like lead.

What had just happened?

He looked around the room. The fire was still burning low, embers letting out the occasional orange flame. There were still bits and pieces lying around from the day – a toy Rosie had forgotten, Wes's gloves drying over the mantelpiece, a bottle of port and several used glasses, a half-finished bowl of crisps. The couch where they had laid entwined with one another was slightly rumpled. The cushions were askew and the throw that usually lay over it had slipped off with their enthusiasm. Was it really just three or so minutes since they had lain there, Harry wondered? It felt suddenly like a lifetime ago.

Had he done the wrong thing? He had been so sure it was the right thing.

His head hurt. The blood surging through him suddenly was nowhere near as pleasant as it had been, before. His groin ached from his rapidly fading erection. The tension running through him was almost intolerable.

Fuck.

Shit.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them again.

Nothing was resolved. Nothing seemed clearer than before. Ruth was not back and he couldn't find the words he needed to form an explanation for her. He wanted so much to do the right thing but, right now, he didn't know what the right thing was and he felt torn ten different ways by it. Should he follow her and try and explain? Should he follow her and tell her he was right? Should he follow her and admit he was wrong? (Was he wrong?) Should he leave and pretend none of this had ever happened? Should he call her and leave a message, apologise? Should he disappear from the country and never return?

He was an idiot, Harry told himself, running one hand over his face. Underneath all the confusion and the drunken haze, he was fairly sure of that. Whatever he had done – whether it was right or not – he had obviously gone about it in the wrong way, again. Again, he had used the wrong words at the wrong time and she had drawn away from him.

Why was he such an idiot?

.

Gathering his things and Wes's things from around the house, Harry dug around in the couch for a while until he found his phone and called in to the Grid, knowing full well that Ruth was right and they would never get hold of a taxi at this time of night. Dimitri picked up on the third ring and, rather kindly in Harry's opinion, agreed to send one of his junior field officers and a pool car to pick them up without even questioning his need. Thanking him quietly, the inebriated Section Head hung up and stowed the phone back in his pocket.

Heading upstairs, he tip-toed past Ruth's bedroom – past the door which had been slammed a few minutes previously – pausing, for a moment or two, to stare at it, before heading further down the hall to the guest bedroom. He opened the door, expecting to have to tip-toe over and quietly wake Wes, but the eleven-year-old was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Why were you and Ruth shouting?" he asked, nervously, as Harry padded in and handed over a coat and some gloves.

"We just had a little fight about something," Harry dismissed. "It'll be fine."

Wes pulled on his gloves and coat, looking doubtful.

"It didn't sound fine."

"Wes," Harry ducked down, halfway through pulling on his own coat. "We'll talk about it later." Or never, if he could manage it. "Now come on, or we'll miss our lift."

.

Next door, Ruth listened to them move around, torn between staying in bed and sulking, and running after Harry to shout at him some more. Her mind was tearing itself into pieces. Her body was shaking with adrenaline. She had never been so frustrated and confused and hurt. Nor as mortified. What was wrong with him? Why had he done that to her? Why was he walking away? He was supposed to come to her and keep apologising until she forgave him. He was supposed to show her that he did care. What was wrong with him, she thought, tears sliding down her cheeks? How could he be so brilliant at what they did – the observing of people and the interacting with them – and then fail so utterly at the same thing in his personal life? How could he think that anything that happened between them could be stupid?

It had felt so right. For just a few minutes, she had thought they might have made it over all of their obstacles. She had thought that waking up tomorrow, a little hungover (or, in his case, a lot hungover) and a little embarrassed, she and Harry would be in a position to move on with their lives together. It would have been awkward, at first, but they would have been moving forwards together. She had wanted that. And she had needed him. Ruth was not a particularly physical person. She had never had more than an average sex drive. But it had been a perilously long time since she had been with a man and, physically, she had needed him tonight. He had no idea how much courage it had taken to show him that, she thought, feeling hot tears fall across her cool skin – especially because of what they had been through, together.

Closing her eyes, she listened as Harry led Wes downstairs and locked the door, posting the key that he had found on her mantelpiece back through the letterbox behind him.

Outside, a car pulled up and there were more footsteps, then doors slamming, the an engine revving, to take them away.

Inside, another tear slid down Ruth's cheek. She waited for just a few moments longer, in the girlish hope that Harry was still there – in the vain hope that he had realised his mistake and sent the car on, that he had turned back to the house and was just about knock on her door, beg for her to let him back inside, crawl into her bed and apologise for being a self-centred control-obsessed bastard and then hold her until it was all better. She waited for half a minute, then a full minute, then two. And then, when nobody knocked and the street outside had descended back into its quiet slumber, she lay her head back down on her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

.

.


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20 – End Feeling_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

They didn't talk to one another for almost a week after the events of Christmas Day. As promised, Ruth was in bright and early on the morning of the twenty-sixth (as was Harry, though he spent most of it skulking out of sight in his office, with the blinds closed) but she made no effort to be civil to her boss. In fact, that day and for the next few after, she went out of her way to be as uncivil as she could, without being outright rude. She ignored him when he wished her a tentative 'good morning' in the hallways. She made sure she was the last into the briefing room and the first out, each time they were called upon to convene. She distributed tasks so that she wouldn't end up with those which she might have to report back to him on. As head of his analysis unit, she could hardly cut contact with completely, of course – he was her Section Head after all – but she did a bloody good job of staying as far away from him as possible.

The others must have realised something had gone on between them but they all rather politely refused to say anything about it. Even Dimitri, who Ruth knew had been on duty when Harry had called in for a pick-up from her house, gave her nothing more than a slightly sympathetic smile when they were back working together, on the twenty-eighth. They must all have assumed that Harry had made some move, Ruth thought, and that she had knocked him back. Those of them who knew the saga of 'Ruth and Harry' knew that was how it worked, after all. She supposed she should put someone right and let them know that he hadn't pushed his luck and tried it on, especially as Erin and Dimitri had been acting a little stiffly towards Harry on her behalf ever since, but the idea of them knowing the truth made her shudder with embarrassment. And more than a little bit of shame.

She was ashamed because, while she had not been drunk - just as she had told Harry, on the night – she had been a little tipsy and it had made her braver than she would otherwise have been, in coming onto him. She was ashamed because she had gone against all of her instincts and exposed all of her desires and vulnerabilities, had opened herself up to him just like he had told her she should, and he had just stabbed her in the heart.

Ill advised, uncontrolled and wanton as it may have been, her seduction had been completely honest. She had wanted him, that evening. She had wanted him, them, sex and more. She had wanted to mess around and then make love and then wake up beside him the next morning and begin to cement what she wanted them to be together. A family. She had wanted to make him and Wes breakfast the next morning and then take Wes back to his baby sitter, fielding awkward questions about the why Harry had stayed over and where exactly they had both slept. She had wanted to head into work with Harry, afterwards, and field awkward questions from the team, too. She had been scared stiff of the prospect but she had been ready for it. She had been ready for every possible consequence of her actions except for rejection. And now she was ashamed and angry and hurt.

Why hadn't he wanted her? Had she done something wrong? Had she not lived up to the idea of them he must have formed (like she had, of him,) over the years? She had thought he was pleased with her at the time, judging by the eagerness of his movements against her and the hard shaft of him pressed into her thigh, anyway. He had certainly felt pleased. He had certainly felt as though he would have liked to continue what they had started. But then, suddenly, without any lead-up that she could figure, he had stopped them short. He had stopped them before they had truly got started. He had looked her in the eye and reeled off this list of excuses. He had told her they shouldn't do anything stupid or trite.

The words hurt now, just thinking of them. Stupid or trite. How could they be something stupid or trite? They were complicated and drawn-out, Ruth knew, repressed and frustrated, for sure, but they were never stupid or trite. Never. They loved one another. How could love be called stupid or trite?

Laying her pen down, on a pile of paperwork, Ruth closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her forehead. She was tired of fighting. Tired and sick of it all. Glancing over at Harry's office, however, she still felt the stirring sof animosity. Five days had passed and it hadn't faded, yet. She had never been more hurt or mortified. And, sick of the argument as she was, she wasn't ready to make nice again. Harry could go on avoiding her and feeling guilty for another few days first.

He had tried to apologise to her thrice, already.

The first had been the most tentative. He had called her and Calum Reid into his office then sent the field officer away on some imaginary errand to Archives. Alone with each other for the first time since Christmas, Ruth had tried valiantly to keep the conversation on professional terms but Harry had launched almost immediately into apology. The words 'misunderstanding' and 'timing' were floated in the first sentence and, after hearing them, Ruth could not quite bring herself to listen to the rest. Telling Harry she really needed a few days and some space, she had dropped her files on his desk and high-tailed it out of there before he could say any more.

However, socially inept tool though he could be, Harry was nothing if not tenacious. He tried again the next day, appearing at her desk halfway through a particularly tense search for a young Northern Irish gentleman who had strayed into their jurisdiction toting several large petrol bombs and a rather ambitious plot to blow up parliament. He had offered her a cup of coffee with such a hopeful look on his face that Ruth (stressed and exhausted) had almost melted her chilly facade. Then she had remembered how embarrassed she had been and turned angrily away again. Luckily, Tariq had appeared at the at that moment, calling her away to deal with a problem with some GCHQ intelligence and sparing Harry from having to awkwardly stand there, facing her turned back.

He brought her flowers the day after that, sending them thankfully to her home rather than to the office where she would have had to explain them to the others with some excuse or another. The small note attached said, simply, 'I'm sorry'. Ruth had thrown away the note, but kept the flowers. For her lack of a vase, they were sitting in a bowl in her sink. Pale yellow carnations, incidentally, her favourite; something that she never even remembered telling him.

Looking up at the closed blinds of his office, now, Ruth knew they should probably talk. She knew it was the adult thing to do, in the situation, but she just didn't trust herself not to shout or cry or die of embarrassment yet and so, she decided, she should keep her mouth shut for now. About the personal, anyway. She did need to go through and deal with some professional matters though, she reminded herself. Harry had asked for a report on the intelligence she had received from Six's handover, that morning – a threat by a Syrian group with anti-Western allegiances. She had been procrastinating over bringing it in for over an hour. There was no way she could go on saying it wasn't done, she thought, glancing back to her screen and looking through page after page of perfectly formatted text and figures. She had triple-checked every fact, had re-written and polished every synopsis. It was as complete as any report was ever like to get.

Heaving a sigh, she checked to send it to the tablet sitting on her desk and waited as it almost instantly uploaded. Feeling dimly nostalgic for the old days, when Harry had been allowed to demand everything in hard-copy form and one could procrastinate with the printer for a good twenty minutes, she stood and made her way through to the door of his office. Two knocks and she entered – a concession to her usual fashion of bursting in without any announcement at all.

Harry looked up from his desk as she crossed the room, his eyes switching from surprise to their now customary shade of guilt and unease.

"I have that report," Ruth stated, bluntly, holding it up as she reached his side, to see whether he wanted it immediately in hand or in his already towering in-tray.

Harry motioned to the desk, implying the latter.

"Can I get a synopsis?" he asked, laying his pen down wearily from where he had been marking out corrections and closing the file on front of him. Ruth read a clearance level above hers on the cover and quickly averted her eyes.

"Of course."

Without pausing to allow angry thoughts to rise to the surface, she launched immediately into the tale of Youssif Shaaban; twenty four year old son of popular Imam and political mover Abu-Kahlid Shaaban, from Homs, who had become involved with radical members of his father's fringe-radical group and split off to make his own mark on the world – first by assisting in the kidnap and murder of local Alawites and then leading a petrol-bombing attack on a local market, catching foot-traffic on the way back from evening prayers. From what they understood, he had had no particular political affiliations himself, beyond what the men who led him from above passed down, until earlier this year, when the movements of one of the Free Syrian Army factions caught his attention.

"His superiors put his anti-minority sentimentalities to good use," Ruth continued, folding her arms across her stomach as she prepared to regale Harry with some of the more unpleasant details. "He was one of those sent around to throw unwanted families, mainly Christian, from their homes and tell them to leave the city, during the FSA's siege of the Baba Amr district of Homs, a few weeks ago."

"Charming."

"He was removed from active duty in the FSA when some of his actions unduly upset the locals." Ruth couldn't imagine what 'unduly' must have meant, considering the locals were under shellfire and sniper lines, but she imagined it must have been bad for the MI6 asset to have mentioned it. "Something to do with the capture and rape of the fourteen-year-old daughter of one of their targets. A government official, I believe. Revenge for a similar attack by the Syrian Army."

A muscle in Harry's jaw twitched slightly and Ruth wondered if he was thinking of Catherine.

"Anyway," she forced herself to continue. "He was shunted from a main faction of the FSA to a fringe group who were less interested in the politics of the anti-regime campaign and more interested in the power they could wield in its wake. Six's asset on the ground says that this splinter group's primary objective, at the moment, is to shift the public perception of the conflict from that of a political uprising to that of a religious war. They want to stir sectarianism. And they want to send a message to the west to keep our noses out." She nodded down at her report. "That's where Youssif Shabaan comes in. An intelligence source from our American cousins has this splinter group moving something through Europe on the same dates that Six's asset has Shaaban leaving the country. We think he might be heading here. We don't know why. We're running contacts, possible routes and targets, and contacting all agencies that might need to know. I'm hearing back from Frank Chiltern, at GCHQ, in a couple of hours to hear an update from them."

She let out a heavy breath once it was all over.

Harry did the same, a little more sedately, across the table. He looked tired, Ruth noted, sitting with his hands folded on front of him and wearing no tie – despite it being the middle of the day. The open shirt reminded her, very slightly, of the other night, and she quickly looked away again, wondering if she should make some excuse or just a run for the door. At this moment in time, the latter felt preferable. Harry spoke before she could do either, however, rooting her back to the spot.

"Who is Six's asset, on the ground?"

"Amir Najjar, born Dmitri Yegorov. He's ex-KGB, Russian by his father, Syrian by his mother, and has been working for Six for the past fourteen years," Ruth reported, quickly. "He is well entrenched in the region and on close and personal terms with one of the men currently holding the FSA together – ex-General in the Syrian army, now one of the FSA's deputy chief of staff. Our asset married the General's daughter five years ago, before all the unrest, and is father to his two grandsons. Apparently, they share a love of cricket, good whiskey and a hatred of the Russian government." Harry would get along famously with the pair of them, she thought, but did not say out loud. For right now, things were too fraught between the pair of them for jokes. "He has given good intelligence for years. His wife and sons are safe in Turkey, out of the reach of both the FSA and the Government. Six have them under surveillance. He's not being squeezed. We think we can trust his intel."

Harry nodded, looking down at his hands.

"Good." He looked just about to ask another question when his phone rang, startling the pair of them to jump slightly.

Ruth looked enquiringly over, as Harry looked at the caller ID, but instead of motioning for her to leave he just sighed and nodded towards the seat. "Hang on, this won't take a moment. It's Wes's babysitter's line – probably some nonsense."

Reaching over, he picked up the phone, as Ruth took up position in the seat across from him, searching for somewhere to look while he made his call and wishing that he had just let her leave. Just being in the same room as him was cripplingly awkward. Every time she looked at him, she remembered how she had thrown herself at him, how their bodies had pressed into one another, how wonderful he had felt and how hard her heart had rushed in her throat, and then – of course – how devastatingly awful it had felt when he had pushed her away again. She blushed to herself. She swallowed back the tightening of anger in her throat. She kept her eyes on anywhere but Harry.

He talked on, frowning down the phone line.

"Yes, I am," he was saying, to whomever this babysitter was. "No, of course not. Is she all right?"

That caught her attention.

She looked back over.

The lines on Harry's forehead had creased a little further. He looked perturbed by something.

"That's a relief. Was it this morning?" He pulled a piece of paper towards himself and reached around for a pen. Ruth noted one near the top of his file but didn't reach out like she usually would and hand it to him. She wasn't feeling in a helpful sort of mood. "Yes, one moment," Harry murmured, as he felt around and found it eventually, pulling it back towards himself and using it to scribble down a number on the scrap of paper. A local number. Postcode SE-something anyway. "Yes. No. Please tell her I understand." A pause. "Yes, of course. I'll be in touch tomorrow for an update. Pass on my best wishes." Bidding whomever was on the other end of the line goodbye and turned back to Ruth. He looked vexed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Wes's babysitter has had a car accident," he answered her unasked question, tapping the end of his pen agitatedly against the table. "She's broken her ankle – quite badly, apparently. She'll be in hospital for the next two days and off her feet for a good few weeks."

Ruth felt a slight flutter of worry.

"Is Wes okay?"

"Fine. He was at rugby," Harry sighed and checked his watch. "Still is, actually, for the next half an hour or so. I'll need to head off soon, if I need to pick him up myself..." Looking down at his watch, then over at his open diary with its solid meetings pencilled in for the afternoon, his frown deepened.

Ruth shifted in her seat.

There were some things which transcended messy relationship situations. An eleven year old boy was one of those things. She didn't particularly want to be in the same room as Harry, right now, never mind talk to him, but Wes was more important than her embarrassment.

"You can't bring him back here," she pointed out. "Do you have someone else to look after him?"

"Yes," Harry ran one tired hand over his head. "Gemma, the babysitter, called around while she was in the ER waiting room – arranged for one of his friends' parents to take him tonight because she knew I had to work. They can drop him off back with me tomorrow morning, at around eight. I should be off by then, barring something dreadful. I'll have him for the day and then I can take him to another friends' on the second, who are free to look after him until the fourth, when her permanent replacement can start – if they pass our security vetting, of course." He still sounded stressed, at the end of the explanation.

"So, if Wes is catered for," Ruth asked, with a frown, "what is the problem?"

Harry shifted slightly in his seat.

"I don't know if I can really spare the time to go get him myself but," he sighed, "I'm a little reticent about sending a stranger, to pick him up from across town and drive him to his friend's house. I told him it would always be someone he knew, who came for him, someone safe." He gave a little shake of his head. "It's just me being silly. He'll be fine. He'll understand. And I cannot afford to fall behind schedule tonight of all nights."

Ruth nodded, slowly.

New Years' Eve; the one night that it was acceptable to cause explosions across the city. It was always a nightmare. People buying explosives. People travelling in large numbers. People drunk. Cameras working overtime. Cordoned off areas and masses of anxious police. It was ideal cover for anyone who might be wanting to cause a more sinister 'bang' in the city and plenty of people had tried it in the past. Thankfully, this year, they didn't look like they had anything on the books. There were no glaringly massive holes in security. There were no ominous open threats – apart from Avery Price, of course, and his anthrax, but their latest intelligence had linked him with a newly opened bank account in South America. And besides, Ruth reminded herself, the JIC doubted he would try and shift the biological weapon in such a heavily watched market. Intelligence agencies were on such high-alert for it, at the moment, that any exchange of the bacteria – any purchase of new cooling or dispersal equipment – were treated with the upmost severity and jumped upon at first notice. Nobody was moving, in that market, for fear of someone seeing them. The spotlights were on. Like any good prey, Price would hide away somewhere, until the coast had cleared.

Their evening being open, however, did not mean Harry would be free for one moment. He had a meeting with the DG until three, then a meeting with the Home Secretary for fifteen minutes later, to give him the last report of the year, two places he had to 'pop into' to put names to faces (a requisite ass-kissing which she knew he only partook in once a year and under the most stringent insistence of the Home Secretary). Then, after that was all done, he had to head back to the Grid and stay on with them until one in the morning, to manage the handover to the nightshift, to make sure that all agencies were coordinating on their most active night of the year.

It would be a nightmare, as it always was, and they could really do without having to worry about Wes too. (Because Ruth knew Harry would worry just as much as she would. He cared deeply for the little boy – that much had been evident when she had seen them together the other day). It would work out better for all of them if Wes's welfare was not a consideration, if someone who knew him could collect him and take him to his friend's house, where he would be happy and safe. And she was done, for now, Ruth reminded herself. With her report handed in, all of her immediate tasks were completed and, since she did have a two-hour late-lunch break scheduled in right about now. She could use that time to swing across to Wes's school playing fields then take him to his friend's house. It would work out well. Harry didn't have to miss out on work and Wes didn't have to get ferried about by a stranger...

Across the way, Harry seemed to have put their schedules together and realised the opportunity at the same time as Ruth had. It didn't seem to cheer him up any, however. Quite the contrary, in fact, his face fell slightly.

"Ruth, I wasn't implying-," he began, desperately trying to show that he did not expect her to help him out. "I didn't meant to presume, or impose. I was just explaining the situation. I didn't mean for you to-,"

"I can go for him," Ruth interrupted, quickly, as Harry threatened to babble on in his insistence of non-presuming and non-imposing. "If you don't think he'd mind," she added, looking down at Harry's in-tray. "You can't realistically go yourself and it would be nice if he knew the person coming in your stead."

Her boss followed her eyes to the in-try and all of its paperwork, looking suddenly and uncharacteristically forlorn. Then a second passed and the expression vanished. He nodded curtly. "That would be a wonderful help, if you really don't mind. I can always find someone else, if you do."

"I don't mind," she confirmed.

"Thank you, Ruth."

She felt her stomach tingle slightly when he said her name, remembering how it had felt when he whispered it against her neck. It had been so soft. His words, his skin, his movements. Everything about them had been soft and warm and, to her at least, perfect. It had felt so good. It had felt like they were moving forwards and then, somehow, here they were again. Back where they had started. She tried, for a second, to rectify the sweet, gentle lover who had touched her then with the man sitting across from her now, upright and talking in such clipped professional tones. It was impossible until he met her gaze and the dark hazel of his eyes softened, slightly, a brief flicker of honeyed warmth showing there.

"I don't mind," she repeated, looking away from his eyes as a wave of resentment shot through her. What right did he have, to have made her feel good and then pull away again, leaving her alone and exposed and abandoned? What right did he have to hurt her like that? Who did he bloody think he was? "It's only across town," she continued, a little maliciously. "I'd drive further, for Wes." She put emphasis on the 'for Wes' bit, just in case he was in any doubt who the favour was being done for.

Harry's face fell very slightly; a change of micro-expression only, because he was far too well trained to show it on the whole.

"Of course," he nodded, looking down at his hands. "I'm very grateful."

"You don't have to be," Ruth retorted, quickly. "We should all look out for the boy. Adam would have done the same, if it had been one of us who had died, leaving someone behind."

Harry's brow tightened.

"Ruth, please don't..."

Ruth gritted her teeth but said nothing.

She knew she should feel guilty, for twisting the knife she was digging under his skin, but she still felt too slighted to care. He had hurt and humiliated her.

A long silence passed, where neither of them moved or spoke, then Harry murmured, quietly. "Listen, I know you don't want to talk to me, right now, but I am very sorry. I'd had far too much to drink and I acted thoughtlessly, selfishly. I was trying to do the right thing and I know that's not an excuse," he added, as she tightened her jaw, "but I was. I never meant to hurt you."

Ruth said nothing, fighting hard against the tightness in her throat. She wouldn't cry... she wouldn't cry...

"I'm _sorry_," Harry repeated, leaning slightly forwards across the desk. His eyes were so sincere. So bloody genuinely sorry.

A surge of irritation swept through her. It was so strong that she almost got up, there and then, and stormed out of the room but she somehow managed to hold back on the impulse. It would be childish. It would be unprofessional. And she would be damned if she was going to be blamed for that, after all of these years maintaining their professional relationship. Instead, then, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and turned her attention down at Harry's desk, seething silently.

They had felt so good. They had felt wonderful, together, and then he had ruined it all. She was so incredibly angry. She was sick to death of feeling confused and frustrated and longing. She wasn't sure where they were supposed to go from here. And yet... And yet, she told herself, with a small sigh, it still did not feel like the end. Not yet.

Ruth had been in enough relationships to know what the end felt like. She could remember it in all of her relationships. Her first breakup; her discovery that her second serious boyfriend was leaving her for her then-best friend; the day that Gary Hicks had sat her down and told her that he was moving to London, on his own, because his career had to come first; the afternoon that George had sat across from her, in that awful MI5 safehouse, and listened to her explain why she had left London years before. She could remember the distance in all of their eyes, at that moment, the look which told her they had reached an impasse, where they had nothing more to say – where the forces pulling them apart were greater than the emotions holding them together. That was the end feeling, she thought. That was when she had known, deep down, that there was nothing left to fight for.

But she didn't have that feeling, now. She was furious with Harry, for what he had done. She couldn't see how they were supposed to move forwards from here, or how either of them were ever going to get over their insecurities in order to be together. But, she knew that there was still something there, between them. There was something more, here, some possibility of reprieve where there had only been emptiness, with the others. She supposed that the love she felt for him must be greater than her frustration over his lack of trust – both in her and in himself. She supposed that love must be keeping their futures tied together, for now, though their present remained fraught and painful and angry.

It was not a permentant situation. Ruth got the feeling that, at any moment, something else could happen that could act as the straw to the proverbial camel's back and all that they were could come tumbling down. She knew it would be a hellish uphill struggle, even if they did manage to get over this, but she couldn't quite bring herself to let go yet – to say something damning, to end them completely, to leave. There was something left in them. They weren't over quite yet. And so, she sat in silence for another ten seconds or so, breathing slowly until she was calm enough to speak.

Eventually, after half a minute or so, she was ready. Lifting her eyes from the desk, she fixed them on her boss.

"I am _so_ angry with you, right now," she told Harry, with blunt sincerity.

Across the way, her boss's eyebrows tilting slightly up in the middle as if he wanted to plead apology again but Ruth shook her head, overriding him. She didn't want another apology. There was nothing he could say to fix it all, so she would rather he said nothing until she was sure where she wanted to go with this. She still loved him – this would not burn so much if she didn't – but the situation was near impossible and she was so angry, right now. She wasn't sure where the future lay, if it lay at all.

"I need time," she told him shortly. "So please just leave it."

Harry looked back down at his folded hands. "I understand," he murmured, very quietly.

"Good."

They both sat for a very long thirty seconds or so, in horrible awkward silence.

Eventually, Ruth gathered herself again and pushed forwards.

"If you give me the address, I'm happy to go and pick up Wes," she told him, standing up from her chair and brushing her skirt down smooth. She had taken great care to dress well, in the days after the events of Christmas, to bolster her shattered self-esteem. Today's offering was a dark navy blue dress – something new and somewhat more flattering than most of her other outfits. She noted Harry's eyes very quickly draw over her as she stood, before dropping back to the table and seeking out the note he had scribbled down earlier.

"That's the number of the rugby coach. I'll ring ahead and tell him you're coming instead of Gemma." He offered her the scrap of paper then dug into the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a set of keys. "They're just around the corner, at Vincent Square, at the playing fields. Take the Range Rover from bay 23. It's what I drove him in with, this morning, so it'll make it easier for him to spot you."

Ruth accepted the keys, feeling the warmth of them heat her palm. Warmth from Harry's hand, to hers, by proxy.

"I'm surprised you have him attending Westminster," she commented, conversationally, trying to draw her mind back to the present and away from the plague of memories that now infested it whenever she looked at her boss. "It's so close to a lot of places we see targeted."

"He was settled there," Harry replied. "His friends are all there. I didn't want to uproot him, after all of the rest that he had suffered." He gave a little sigh. "I'm considering moving him somewhere else, at the end of term, if he's amenable. Somewhere outside the city perhaps."

"Almost anywhere else would be cheaper."

"He gets a partial scholarship for his grades. Money isn't a great consideration, though."

Of course not, thought Ruth, glancing up at him.

Huge paycheck. Nobody to spend it on.

Because he was an ass, she reminded herself. He had nobody because he pushed everyone away. Because he was an ass.

"Anything I need to pick up from yours, for him?" she asked, setting her jaw. "Clothes, games, medicines?"

"I have a bag packed for emergencies in the porch of the house," Harry told her. "He should have a few games and clothes in there, and some spending money if he needs it." He scribbled down another few codes on a sheet of paper and handed it over to her, without hesitation. "That's for the security system around the house. Wes knows where the bag is, when you get there."

"I'll pass on your best wishes, for the New Year."

Harry nodded.

"Thank you."

.

Striding out from Harry's office and back over to her desk, Ruth threw down Harry's keys and threw on her coat, wrapping it tightly around her body against the bitter cold outside. This entire situation was ridiculous, she thought, as she pulled her coat snug around her shoulders and located her security passes, in her pocket. She and Harry were both ridiculous. They were almost never in the same place at the right time and, in the rare occasion that they were, they were moving at a completely different pace in a completely different direction. It would take a bloody world-shifting miracle to get them aligned and moving, together, towards something.

Busy pulling a scarf on over her coat and reaching out to log off her system, she noticed Calum Reid padding over just before he reached her side.

"Hello," he greeted her, cheerfully. "Off for a jaunt to the cafe?"

"No." Ruth eyed him briefly. Why the interest? Perhaps he was hoping he could make a request. "I need to run a personal errand," she explained, turning off her screen and piling her millions of pens and highlighters back into the topmost drawer of her desk.

"Oh, cool..." Calum drifted off, watching silently for half a minute or so, as Ruth went about the business of pushing her papers into a single un-ordered pile. His own desk being faultlessly tidy, Ruth supposed watching her shove pens into a desk drawer filled with scraps of paper, rubber bands and wrappers of times gone by would cause him all sorts of inner turmoil. He said nothing about it, however, preferring to stand and wait as he presumably plucked up courage for whatever it was he really wanted to ask her, (because Ruth was sure he hadn't locked his computer and walked over here just to ask whether she was heading to the cafe). Sure enough, after a moment or so, the younger officer raised his eyes to Ruth's again and struck up a nonchalant conversational tone. "So, not to be nosy," he began. "But we were all wondering..." here it comes, thought Ruth. "Are you and Harry okay? Only myself and the rest of the team noted a little bit of... tension, over the last few days."

Ruth gave him a long look, then returned to bashing her papers back into a disorderly pile.

"Me and Harry?" she asked.

"Yes. We thought you might have had some sort of disagreement."

That was a diplomatic way of putting it, thought Ruth. They had been avoiding each other like the plague. They had been sending others to deliver messages on their behalf, skirting the long way around the Grid to avoid passing each other, and that was not even mentioning how Ruth had bitten Harry's head off several times in the briefing room – snapping at him for expecting too much of her analysis department without giving them the proper resources (something which they always had to deal with but seemed a lot more irritating now she was angry at her boss). And, to make the team more suspicious, Harry had taken all of it. Lying down, belly up.

Of course the team knew something was up.

Ruth was in no mood to explain, however. And it was really none of their business.

"We'll be fine," she informed Calum, with clearly forced cheerfulness, to indicate that the topic was off-limits. Deep down, she wasn't sure if she and Harry would be fine but, then again, she knew in herself that this didn't feel like the end. She was furious, but she still cared very much. Maybe later. Maybe if they fixed things... "If we make it to the end of the week without me killing him," Ruth corrected, to the younger officer, "then we'll be fine."

Looking down, Calum gave a nervous clear of his throat and became very interested in his fingertips.

"I see," he murmured.

"I'll be back at two," Ruth told him. "Keep an eye on my open tasks, will you? I've split them by operation and handed half over to you and half to Tariq."

"Will do."

"I'll see you later."

"Bye."

She strode off across the room, heels clicking loudly against the floor, the glass security door whooshing and sliding shut loudly in her wake.

.

At her desk, Calum Reid sat for a moment - looking very much like he regretted having asked - then turned and headed back to his own station, muttering something about 'masochists' under his breath.

.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21 – Intel_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

They were mad, Calum Reid thought, watching Ruth as she disappeared from sight down the corridor beyond the glass security door. Both Harry and her were stark raving mad. There was no other reason why they should be indulging in such a strange and counterproductive courting ritual. Calum knew that you had to be a bit of a masochist to entertain this job. He knew that Harry and Ruth, having survived longer than anyone else so far, were a bit more masochistic than the usual spook, but really – what were they playing at?

Whatever had happened between them the other night must have been one hell of a blow-out. On the surface, both of them had managed to maintain their professional fronts. Apart from being a bit distracted, they acted no differently unless they were around each other. When they were around each other, Ruth spent her time staring daggers at Harry and Harry spent his cast guilty, longing glances back at Ruth. From this, Calum surmised that, whatever had happened, it had been unilaterally agreed to be his fault and he was bearing the brunt of the consequences. Unless he had managed to knock her up, Calum conceded. That would kind of land on both of them.

He doubted this was the case, however. Quite apart from Harry being, well, completely ancient, and probably not even capable of knocking someone up anymore, Calum doubted that Ruth could being angry over something like a child. She had been completely soft on both Rosie and Wes, during their Christmas day. A baby, then, while probably inconvenient for the pair of them, would be a source of joy for her. So, Calum concluded, Harry hadn't knocked her up. What else could it be then, he asked himself? A proposal, gone wrong? Perhaps he had asked her to move in with him? Perhaps he had asked her to marry him? But he couldn't see Ruth being upset about either of those options either.

Cheating seemed the next logical option, or something from Harry's past. Calum knew that Harry had been married, and that he had been involved in a few work-related affairs he had been given warning for, over the years. In his younger days, he had played the field often enough. But there was nothing in his file for the last ten years or so. No permission to socialise forms dating further than six years. No operations involving women who could fit the profile of a lover. There had been a Russian deal he had been briefly involved in, which could have brought up a dark secret from his past – Calum knew Harry had worked in Cologne for a few years, across from Ilya Gavrik, the Russian diplomat involved in the deal – but it was a bit delayed. The Russians had left the country under a dark cloud more than a week ago. It couldn't be about them.

Whatever had happened between Harry and Ruth, then, remained a mystery. It seemed to be Harry's fault but, unlike Erin and Dimitri, Calum didn't intend on showing a cold shoulder to their boss. Whatever it was, Ruth had told him on no uncertain terms, today that it was private. And, as much as he loved to suppose and theorise, Calum wasn't going to get involved. Things had just started to look up for him, in Section D. After surviving what had seemed like an un-survivable situation, he had a new lease on life. Things which had felt important before no longer bothered him. He took his assignments as they came and resolved to be better, in all areas. Harry was giving him more responsibilities in the field, including his own tactical team to organise and a junior analyst to liaise with. It was like having a team within a team. His team. His people. Calum was enjoying it immensely. He certainly didn't want to ruin everything by pissing Harry off and getting thrown back to A Section.

Turning back to his computer, he opened the screen just in time to see Calum's message box pop upon it.

'_New intel_,' it said '_come thru asap'_.

Resisting the strong urge to type back and tell the younger officer that he had misspelt 'through', Calum clicked the screen shut again and pulled himself to his feet. Giving a short stretch, he rubbed through his newly cropped hair and headed through to the technical suite to find Tariq leaning forwards across his desk, tapping madly. His desk was covered in wrappers and empty coffee cups – not unlike the bones of a kill, lying scattered around a lion's den, Calum thought, approaching with slight distaste. Picking his way around the mess, he pulled up a spare desk chair and sat down beside Tariq.

The young officer glanced over at him.

"Be with you in just a sec."

His skin was paler than usual, eyes marked out by dark bags. He had been working for two days straight – hell-bent on following one paper trail he thought might lead them to Avery Price. So far, he had had no luck and Calum was sure that this was no different. If the new intel had to do with Price, Tariq would have alerted the team with a victory cry rather than a simple message to Calum's computer. This was probably about one of the cross-checks he had sent through for the technical officer to perform then. Leaning back in his chair, he yawned and waited.

Tariq finished tapping after about thirty seconds and sat back too.

"I think I have something," he stated, voice empty with exhaustion, "but I need you to look at it because I think my eyes are incapable of seeing connections anymore." He blinked hard, then screwed up his face. "I'm starting to see numbers when I close them. I'm starting to actually hear my fingers tapping against plastic keys – in my mind. This might be the end."

"Nonsense," said Calum, wheeling his chair forwards and pulling the mouse towards him, turning Tariq's screen until it faced him squarely. "In the end, there will be four men on horses and much more fire, or whole-world conversion to a single religion and the formation of a new heaven and earth – depending on your religion of choice. There is also the possibility of seventy-two virgins," he added, "but I wouldn't get my hopes up, on that one. Apparently, there is some confusion between the Aramaic and Arabic words for 'virgin' and 'grape'."

Tariq blinked then, clearly giving up trying to follow the monologue, leaning back in his chair instead.

"I don't want to get excited, because every time I thought I've had something over the last five days it has ended up being bugger all, but I think that might just be an account belonging to Avery Price," he explained, pointing at the screen. "I've been digging around in the wire transfer routings, looking through bank account numbers, because I knew Price was able to transfer funds immediately between two accounts within this bank. Their protection laws stop me from being able to get personal details or details from longer than three months ago, but, if this is something, it could give us a lead on the anthrax. It's been almost two weeks," the younger officer trailed on, "I mean, we need to find it. If he gets underground with the stuff then he could wait for years before selling and our guards will be down. I mean, the next thing we hear about this weapon might be-,"

"-when its filling our lungs, giving our immune systems the old shock and awe treatment. Yeah," Calum raised an eyebrow as he panned through the screen, pulling another up beside it and comparing the information on both. "I heard Harry's rather graphic speech on that one too. Why do you think he gets his kicks out of scaring the nuts of us?" he asked, incidentally. "Childhood trauma? Psychopathy?"

Tariq didn't answer.

Calum was about to pursue the matter when his eye was caught by a series of transfers at the bottom of the page. All three from the same internet cafe – and coinciding with three coming out of Avery Price's account. "Woah... think you've got something here, mate."

"Do I?" Tariq looked vaguely surprised. "I hope so. It would be nice to go home and get some sleep."

Calum's mouth stretched slightly, into a smile.

It was as if a lightbulb had lit up in his head. Things began to connect. He could see numbers and dates and coinciding entries in multiple bank accounts. He could see invisible strings connecting it all together – not unlike that horrific mind-map that Bethan Shayne had placed on her bedroom wall, during her search for the mole. (Now that was a sure-fire sign he was losing it). Tariq had been using a program which recognised search patterns to find out if any account holders, within a certain bank, had the sort of activity that would be coming from Avery Price. It seemed he had hit gold.

"I don't think you'll be going home anytime soon mate," he told Tariq, feeling a rush of optimism. "Looks like it's going to be cot beds and standby for us for a while yet." Wheeling over, he grabbed the phone off the side of the table and raised it to his ear, tapping in Harry's extension. It rang once, twice, then he picked it up.

"_What_?"

"Got something for you, boss. You'd better come through."

Harry hung up. A few moments later, they heard footsteps down the hall and his head poked through the doorframe.

"You know," he stated, testily, "I think I almost preferred it when the lot of you barged into my office without asking. At least then I didn't have to get up from my seat." He fixed Calum in his sights. "What do you want?"

Ignoring the attitude, Calum beckoned him over.

"Come look at this," he pointed at the screen. "Tariq has just found a rock-solid lead."

Harry walked over and both he and Tariq leant forwards at the same time, equal looks of interest on their face as they viewed the material – Harry for the first time and Tariq, perhaps, for the first time with fresh eyes. On the screen on front of them, Calum had shifted around the windows Tariq had been toggling and also brought up a third window, containing a breakdown of the transfer routing pathway. The highlighted portions of the screen near the bottom pointed out the detail he had been so excited by. A transfer routing pathway that ran through the same Saudi bank as-

"Shit, its heading out into the same bank account," Tariq exclaimed, his face changing, opening up and becoming instantly awake in his realisation. "Price's received transfer from the four terrorists who blew you up was routed the same way, through here from that Swiss International. No wonder the trend capture threw up this as a result. It's inverted. Look," he pointed, "payment going out – Thailand, Russia and cleaning by sitting in the Saudi bank for three days. The logon ISP addresses are showing up as different providers but they are at the same physical locations. Look," he pointed again. "It's the same pattern as the payment going in. Same in there, same out, here. And here. This has got to be his. All we have to do is get inside a little further and see where he has accessed it from."

"Six?" Calum asked.

Tariq pulled a slight face.

"We might need them."

Harry looked at the screen for a moment longer, then turned to the pair of them, a slightly resigned look on his face. "I have no idea what either of you two are talking about," he admitted.

Calum turned in his chair to face Harry, as Tariq leapt forwards at the computer, tapping with renewed madness.

"We were using pattern recognition software on a group of bank accounts sent to us, by GCHQ," Calum explained, trying to keep technical terms out of it as much as was possible. Brilliant spook as he was, Harry could be a bit of a dinosaur sometimes – summed up in his routine reference to what Tariq and Ruth did as 'technical stuff'. "Trying to narrow down which accounts could have received money from the people our mole was working with, using known dates and locations of transactions as well as common routing patterns." He resisted saying 'and other technical stuff'. "A lot of them are ghost accounts, with false names, which the money only ever passes through. Decoys,"

Harry's eyes flicked over to the screen. "Like this one?"

"Yes. Well, we don't know for sure," Calum admitted, "but we do know of one existing bank account Vincent had with this bank. And we know that he used that account to perform instant wire transfers to another – so they had to be in the same umbrella group. This one is the only one so far which fits the bill. And it has the right sort of amounts passing through it. We know he splits money and sends it around the world, cleaning it so to speak, before settling it in his own bank account. Now that we've identified that this might be his account," Calum continued, pointing towards the computer, "we can direct our resources to getting inside their system from the location the account was opened. They should have all the details about when and where it was accessed on their network."

"Price is a felon wanted by the authorities. If we know the bank, can't we just subpoena them and-," Harry stopped himself, mid-way through the suggestion, realising he already knew the answer. "How far out of our jurisdiction are you searching? This isn't a UK bank, is it?"

"Venezuelan," Calum confirmed.

"Bloody fantastic." Harry sighed. "I suppose it would take us a couple of weeks to circumvent their privacy laws."

"About three months and a shedload of paperwork. Trust me," Calum inclined his head. "You're glad Tariq did it this way."

There was a slight pause.

"How legal is this software?"

"Uh..." Calum looked over at it. "It's kind of new. We adapted it from a piece Ruth and I... uh... 'liberated' from the MSS when we took down that London cell, last month."

Another pause. Even Tariq's tapping slowed, for a moment. Then Harry sighed and clearly decided not to pursue the matter. How the MSS monitored their peoples' bank accounts was there concern. What Tariq and Calum did with their software was his but he clearly thought that the benefits outweighed the possible illegalities, right now.

"So do we know who is paying Vincent yet?" he asked Calum. "Or where he is?"

"We have no idea." Calum answered, honestly, "but this account received fifty K today, so he could be on the move. That's around the right amount of cash for a deposit on a sale."

"He could be about to sell the anthrax powder."

"Yeah." Calum felt a twinge in his stomach not dissimilar to the worry which visibly passed across Harry's face. "Me and Tariq should get onto cyber-crime, over at Six, and see if they can give us a hand in cracking into this account. Apparently, they have a computer over there so powerful that the server units have to be cooled with liquid nitrogen."

"It think that is a myth," Harry commented, distractedly.

"Uh... I'm not so sure."

"I've honestly never heard about it, Calum."

"It is a secret service," Calum pointed out.

There was a gap in conversation as Tariq swore and apologised, next to them, then he resumed his tapping.

"Either way," Calum continued, as Harry turned back towards him, "we could do with any help we could get. This is the best lead we have on both the Anthrax threat and Price. The adaptable novel programs Six is running these days might be able to help. If we can get a location on Avery Price, we stand a very good chance of being able to surveil him while hijacking his bank account, direct from his personal network. We could find out who he's been selling information to, maybe going back months. This could be a major intelligence haul," Calum told Harry.

Harry's expression did not break once.

He looked reserved, darkly thoughtful.

"Our primary interest is getting that bioweapon," he stated, after ten seconds or so had passed in silence. "If you have any hint of a location – anything – you bring it straight to the top. Hijacking his account can be prepared for but you will hold off on it until I have okayed a plan. Understood?"

"Yes." Calum nodded.

"Okay." Harry nodded, rubbing one hand over his head. "Good job. Ruth will be back within the next hour. I'll clear her schedule so that she can work on this with you. I'll see if I can convince Six to get some of their cyber-crime people on-board, too. Their department head owes me a favour."

He looked more tired than usual, thought Calum, as he watched him standing in the doorway. Before, even in the worst of times, Harry had always looked like he had reserves hidden beneath the surface, something kept by, just in case he needed to spring into action. Today, however, he just looked drained. Exhausted. Older, even if he didn't look any physically older than usual. He looked, for the first time that Calum could remember, like he didn't entirely want to be here. It was strange to witness, like seeing an old dog no longer looking interested in a bone or a walk. Fading out, his father – a consummate dog man – had called it. That few days just before an old dog went off by himself and found a quiet place to die.

Old dog Harry still had some life left in him, though, Calum thought, with a strange twinge in the pit of his stomach. He had come back after the Albany fiasco, hadn't he? He had come back after numerous other scandals, over the years. He loved this job. He epitomised this job. He had given no indication that he might be about to fade out on them all and sneak away into the shadowy world that ex-spooks seemed to live; out to live that strange half-life, absent family and everything they had given up for the job, absent the job which had been their life.

"I'm going to put my tactical group on standby for tonight," Calum commented, to drag the conversation out, hoping for a chance to hear some conviction in Harry's voice, something that would reassure him that nothing was changing and everything was as it should be. Solid. In control. With Harry at the helm. "I had a Health Protection Agency man brief them all on the proper safety gear etcetera, last week. We're all ready to go, should our lead pan out."

Harry nodded.

"Good."

"Anything else you need from us?" Calum prodded.

Harry shook his head. "I've got a meeting to get to, upstairs, in ten minutes. You've got the Grid."

Calum felt a tiny swelling of pride.

He nodded, looking as authoritative as he could manage. "Okay. All under control."

"Good."

Harry turned on his heel, leaving Tariq and Calum alone in the technical suite.

Tariq tapped quietly for a moment then commented softly, through the blue-lit air, "Mate, you could not have been further up his ass there if you had tried."

Calum threw him an indignant glance.

"Like hell."

"Anything else you need from us, sir?" Tariq imitated, gleefully.

"I was just trying to be supportive," Calum retorted defensively, giving the younger officer a frown. "There is something up with him. And Ruth."

"Really..?" Sarcasm.

"Yes, actually." Calum raised his chin. "Come on, Tariq, even by Ruth and Harry's standards, you have to admit this is bad."

Tariq shrugged slightly, looking back at his computer screen.

"I don't know. I've seen her pretty pissed at him, before. And vice versa."

Calum tapped his finger against his arm thoughtfully. Perhaps the younger man was right. He had known them for two years longer, after all. Perhaps this wasn't that unusual a normal occurrence. "Well fine then," he relented, turning back around in his chair and pulling up the second screen, logging himself on and pairing the two systems in order to share Tariq's workload. "But when both of them burn out and blow up and take this entire operation down with them, don't come crawling back through the wreckage of our careers and complain to me." It wasn't entirely career-motivated, his concern, but that was the man he played here and he was loathe to let go of his mask. "I tried to warn you."

Tariq tapped away.

"I was just saying..." he murmured, after a while, "just because Ruth is no longer taking one for the team doesn't mean you have to slip into her place."

Unsure whether Tariq was meaning metaphorically or physically, Calum settled for just glaring at the younger man and muttering "piss off."

The computer screens streamed information past them.

"You know, this is the problem with you field spooks," Tariq continued, as Calum began to type on his own keyboard. "Harry's in love with Ruth, Dimitri fancies Erin, Erin thinks your her baby brother, you idolise Harry; you're all emotionally involved with each other."

Unlike yourself, oh master of cool, Calum thought, but chose not to say anything out loud.

Tariq's talk was just talk. He was young, only twenty five this year. He would learn, over the next dozen or so years – just like Calum had – that being emotionally uninvolved did not a spook make. He would learn that, in fact, it was quite the opposite. Emotions were necessary for what they did. Emotions, after all, were what made them human. And you had to hold onto your humanity in this job. Your humanity was what kept you going, through all the darkness. Emotion could be dangerous, of course, but not when it was kept in check. Self-control and sacrifice. That was what this job was about. Self control, sacrifice and balance, Calum thought, tapping into a long list of ISP addresses and selecting the top one. And a love of strong liquor – (a thought that made Calum flinch, remembering to how he suffered on Boxing day from having gone toe-to-toe with Harry with the whiskey measures, on Christmas afternoon).

Starting up a series of cross-searches, Calum leant forwards in his chair. He would find something before Ruth got back this afternoon, he resolved. Give the analyst something to get her teeth into. If they could find some technical clue, Calum knew, Ruth could worry it and chase it until she had turned it into a lead. And then they could follow that lead and they might find another. And that one might lead them to Avery Price and Avery Price might lead them to their anthrax. All was possible, he thought, dragging and dropping keywords and file extensions. They would find this mole. It was just a matter of time. And then there would be no threat. And Ruth and Harry would make up whatever argument they had had. And all would be well and orderly in Calum's world.

His cross-search hit a dead-end after four minutes.

The second one hit a dead end after forty seconds.

Only seven hundred and thirty more to go, thought Calum, stretching his fingers and leaning closer to the screen.

They would find something. Eventually.

.


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22 – Shayne_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Ruth arrived at the playing fields just in time to pick up Wes from rugby practice The eleven-year-old was as excitable as ever as he climbed into the car, babbling away about a 'try' he had made and someone on the team who had been kicked in the balls by someone else. Ruth listened, doing her best to chat back whenever necessary, though her mind was really on other things - such as Harry and how difficult it was to get his pointlessly enormous RangeRover through the centre of London.

Murmuring the appropriate response to a story about Wes's friend's appendicitis, she continued on her way, back down to Millbank and along the Chelsea embankment, passing river and houses and hospitals until the A3220 banked north, heading out through Kensington towards Harry's home in Holland Park. She swore as a UPS delivery van pulled out on front of them, cutting her off though she had right of way. From his seat next to her, Wes gave a look.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"It's okay." He swung his legs for a while. "Harry swears all the time."

"Well, he has a very stressful job," Ruth muttered, only half-heartedly defending him.

Jerking the steering wheel around, she pulled off the main road and up a smaller residential street that would lead them to Harry's. It was a nice area. A nice street. He had only lived there for nine months so far, Ruth knew, from her routine reading of his personnel file, but he didn't look like he was intending to stay much longer. The lease was only for a year and he hadn't applied for a renewal of security vetting, which he would need if he wanted to renew it for another year. Perhaps he would find somewhere with a bigger garden for Wes and the dog, she thought, avoiding two street cleaners who had paused to have a conversation at the corner as she turned into Harry's street. Maybe he would move out of town a little.

If he had been on better terms, she would have spent a moment, here, thinking about what it would be like to move in together somewhere, Ruth thought. But things were as they were.

"Here we are," she announced to Wes, as she pulled up on the street outside Harry's house, not bothering with the drive as she would have to be leaving soon. "Now, we're just going to nip in and out again. You need to get your overnight bag and anything you might need from your room."

"Can I take my xbox?"

"No."

"But Nicholas doesn't have one!"

"I'm sure you'll both survive."

Wes threw her a slight pout. More like Harry every day, thought Ruth, reaching into her bag for the little slip of paper that Harry had written down his security system information on.

"Ready?"

"Yes." Grumpily, Wes unbuckled his seatbelt and threw himself out of the car, dragging his bag behind him, inches from the ground, as he stomped up the garden path towards the house. Ruth followed, locking the car behind her. (_Maybe she should just let him take the Xbox?)_

At the door, she took her time tapping in the numbers, knowing full well that failure to do so would mean having to call up the Grid and explain why she was trying to break into Harry's house – simply not an option, with the current state of their 'relationship'. Wes leant against the wall next to her, swinging the bag at his side, looking up at her with an expression of curiosity. It was the sort of look that Adam had used to give, before breaking out with some highly inappropriate question. And, sure enough...

"Are you and Harry still cross with each other?" Wes asked, tilting his head to one side.

She looked over at him, in surprise, as the door clicked open on front of her.

"Pardon?"

"You and Harry had a fight at Christmas," Wes replied. "Are you still cross with him?"

Ruth's cheeks blushed red. She couldn't help herself.

"It was just a little misunderstanding," she blustered, letting them in through the front door and leaning over to disarm the inner security box as well, ushering Wes past. "It wasn't exactly a fight."

Wes dumped his bag underneath a coat stand.

"It _sounded_ like a fight."

How much of that conversation had he heard, Ruth wondered, pulling the door closed behind her and slipping Harry's keys back inside her pocket. Probably not very much. They had only shouted for a space of about ten seconds, after all, and Wes had been all the way on the other end of the house, besides. There had been two closed doors between them. He couldn't have heard very much and he probably didn't understand what he had heard. He was probably only asking because Harry had refused to talk about the subject, she reasoned. He was not the most effusive man, after all. That was probably the case. And she knew how boys Wes's age were. If they were told something was off-limits there was nothing on earth else they wanted to talk about.

"Well it wasn't a fight," she told him, firmly. "We disagreed about something or another but then we sorted it out. It's all dealt with, now," she lied.

Wes regarded her carefully.

"So... you're not cross with each other anymore?"

"No."

"Why are you both so grumpy, then?"

Ruth blushed again and stood with her mouth slightly open, for a moment, not sure what to reply. Eventually, she settled upon that old parenting standby; ignoring it.

"Go get your bag," she told the boy. "Pack pyjamas and your toothbrush, because Harry will have forgot about that. And don't even try to pack the Xbox," she added, calling after him as he rolled his eyes and stomped away into the house.

.

By the time Wes had gathered his things, Ruth was already running late for getting back to the Grid. Two messages from Calum and one from Tariq detailed a possible lead they had on Avery Price – a bank account which looked like one of his as well as the indication of a sale happening, sometime soon. Not much of a lead, thought Ruth, but at least it was something. And at least they had a heads-up on that the sale was going down tonight.

She had prepared a profile of the sorts of details intelligence communities should look out for, concerning the anthrax sale, and had distributed it to all the relevant authorities. Hopefully wherever he sold it – and she had to hope they sold it here because they were the best prepared, having rung the case from the beginning – someone would pick up on something. Some asset would come forwards or someone involved would be being watched. Hopefully someone would find Avery Price and what he was selling and both would be apprehended before any more damage was caused.

Trying to push it from her mind, for the moment, Ruth manhandled Wes back out the door, the boy now recovered from not being able to bring his Xbox along to his friends house, after realising that he was allowed to bring Harry the beagle along with him, (and that Harry the beagle was a far better prize to show off). Pushing him off down the garden path, Ruth locked the door and armed the security system behind her then dialled Erin's number on her mobile, to make a quick apology for her tardiness.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," she told the Section Chief, down the line. "I'm just nipping up to St John's Wood and then I'll be heading back. It'll be about half an hour, less if I hit the lights right."

"It's no problem," Erin replied, in an uncharacteristically understanding voice. She was still siding with her, over the whole Harry-is-an-ass business, thought Ruth a little guiltily. Little did they all know, she was the one that had started it all. Little did they know, she was the one who had made a move on Harry, when he was drunk and not altogether sure...

She almost felt sorry for him, for a moment, then remembered that he was an ass and he deserved a bit of a cold shoulder.

She had never been so humiliated.

"I'll do my best to be quick," she told Erin, pushing it all from her mind.

"Good," the Section Chief told her, back to her usual business-like self as Ruth heard Dimitri and someone else approach in the background. "Your tasks have been cleared for the afternoon to work up this new lead with Calum," Erin continued. "Make sure you brief with him when you get in."

"I will. See you soon."

They hung up and Ruth turned back to Wes. He wasn't standing at her side, however. He had gravitated away from her and was currently chatting to a woman at the front gate of the garden, lifting Harry the beagle out so that she could ruffle his beagle's ears. Bloody Carters and their bloody charm, thought Ruth, rolling her eyes as she strode towards them. She didn't have time for this – no matter how much Wes liked to socialise. She was just opening her mouth to politely say they needed to get a move on when, suddenly, her eyes caught the woman's and recognition sparked with her.

Her feet faltered on the path, momentarily.

Bethan Shayne was standing at the end of the garden.

It took a good couple of heartbeats before she could get moving again and, once she did, she moved faster than she had before, quickening her legs until she was standing protectively at Wes's side. Looking up, she met Bethan Shayne's eyes and, with bravery she didn't think she had, she gave the woman a warning look. A protective instinct had surged up within her.

"Wes," she told the boy, "get inside the car."

"But-,"

"Take Harry and get in," Ruth demanded and the serious note in her voice must have hit home for Wes, who withdrew the beagle to his chest and nodded. Staggering over to the car with his bag, jacket and the dog, he pulled the door open and clambered inside. Ruth watched him until he was safe, then turned to the woman across from her.

Tall, blonde and slightly less imposing than Ruth had expected her to be, Bethan Shayne was instantly recognisable from her old SIS identification photograph, despite more than nine years having passed since it was taken. Her hair was liberally streaked with grey in places and there were more wrinkles around her eyes but she had aged well, thought Ruth, appraisingly. Having come up with Harry, through Six, Shayne must have been in her late fifties. Still, she still carried herself with a certain degree of strength. Field officer, Ruth read, in the way she held herself – and the way that, every now and then, she did a sweep of the street to ascertain that they were not being watched. Field officer and wanted felon. Rogue agent.

Bethan Shayne was being chased by no less than twelve government agencies across Europe – and the CIA, who were entirely unconvinced she was not working with Avery Price. While Ruth did not think that was the case – while she was inclined to believe, like Harry, that Shayne had been caught up in all of this just for doing her job – she was not entirely comfortable being in her presence. Whether or not she had gotten into this situation maliciously, Shayne was no innocent, now, Ruth reminded herself. She had shot a SIS director. She had been on the run for weeks. Ruth was in breach of dozens of regulations just by talking to her. Her ass would be seriously on the line if anyone found out about this.

Gathering herself, Ruth shoved her hands into her pockets, trying not to sound as unnerved as she was.

"What are you doing here?" she asked Shayne, coolly.

"Came to see how Harry was getting along," Shayne replied, nodding towards the beagle that Wes was levering into the car.

Ruth set her jaw.

"Why are you here?" she asked again.

The blonde woman across from her gave a low sigh. "I came to hand myself in."

Ruth felt an expression of surprise slip across her face before she could stop herself.

"Pardon?"

"Hand myself in," Shayne repeated. "Wave the white flag, submit, yield, surrender to your custody – whatever you call it."

"Why?" Ruth asked, frowning in confusion.

"I have an asset who has identified Avery Price in London, today, making contact with three men. I need to use Harry's resources to find him."

A flash of panic passed through Ruth.

Avery Price was in London. And they had information, from Calum and Tariq's work on the bank account, that indicated he was about to make a big sale.

"Is he selling the anthrax powder?" she asked, lowering her voice though the street was abandoned.

"Either that or a very large quantity of cocaine." Shayne replied, her sarcasm so perfectly devoid of enjoyment that Ruth was forced to consider, for a moment, that she might be serious. This woman could give Ros a run for her money, she thought, as Shayne looked away again, doing another quick scan of the street.

"What else do you know?"

"I have a hotel he was staying at, yesterday, and the location of a meet. I'm hoping your boys can use CCTV to find him en-route somewhere inbetween those points and then track him to where he is now. If he is selling the anthrax, then he'll be meeting his buyers for a handover sometime this afternoon or tomorrow – depending on when they are planning to use the stuff."

Nobody wanted to have anthrax lying around in their possession, thought Ruth. Whoever was buying the bioweapon would do so just before using it. That meant they were running on a finite time limit, here. Shayne had said that Price had already met up with a buyer. Calum said he had already received a down-payment on the bacteria. That meant that the exchange of the rest of the funds and the weapon would take place sometime soon. And then the use of the weapon not long after that. And that meant that whomever was buying the anthrax was probably planning to use it here, somewhere in the UK if not in London.

Ruth looked down at her feet, thinking. Shayne was right. Their CCTV men and facial recognition software was the best chance they had of finding the weapon now. Still, a little part of her hesitated at the thought of bringing Shayne onto the Grid. Angela Wells came to mind. And a bomb. She had been grieving too, Ruth thought. Angela had lost Peter. Shayne had lost this officer on her team with whom she had apparently been in a relationship. She could easily be on the edge of a spectacular mental breakdown, Ruth thought. She had shot the SIS chief in the leg, after all. But... at the same time... she didn't _feel_ like she was going to do anything nasty.

Lifting her eyes back to the woman across from her, Ruth squared her shoulders, raising her chin.

"Are you really handing yourself into my custody?" she asked, determined to sound like she was at least partly in control of the situation. "Despite the fact that you will be detained and put to trial, for what you've done, as soon as you do?"

Shayne nodded.

"Harry can't stop them, you know," Ruth pressed. "The Foreign office is out for blood. They will throw you to the wolves."

Shayne nodded again.

"I understand," she told Ruth, a little wearily. "And I don't begrudge them, or Harry. He'll do his best at getting me off lightly but I sealed my fate the moment I walked into that board room with a pistol. My reasoning behind it all, whether it was right or not, it does not change what I did. I made myself a traitor. Now, I have to let them treat me like one. It will be worth it, though," she sighed, giving a slightly grim smile, "if we catch the bastards. And I need Five's help to do that."

"Why did you come to me, to bring you in?" Ruth asked, after a long moment had passed. "I'm not a field officer, I'm just an analyst. There were other members of the team who were more suitable."

"I trust Harry's judgement." Shayne answered, simply.

"Harry's judgement?"

"Whatever bullshit he fed that tribunal, I know he wouldn't have traded that package to the Chinese for just anyone."

Ah, thought Ruth, feeling her cheeks burn red. _Albany_.

"Anyway," Shayne continued, her voice brightening up slightly, "being 'just an analyst', you were less likely to be carrying a gun and, therefore, much less likely to carry out the SIS's shoot on sight initiative." She smiled at Ruth, who had turned her attention out to the gathering evening, willing her cheeks to return to their natural colour. "Got to be careful when you're a wanted felon."

Ruth turned her head back around, to meet her gaze.

"Right. Well, if you're coming in, shouldn't we be bringing your asset too?"

"Of course," Shayne nodded. "Already dealt with. I've put him in the boot of your car."

Ruth felt her eyes widen.

"This car?" she asked, nodding towards Harry's RangeRover.

"Yes," Shayne nodded again, looking completely unabashed. "You have excellent boot space, by the way."

"Bloody hell," Ruth muttered, under her breath.

What had she got herself into? What did she always get herself into?

A long pause sounded between them.

In the car, Harry the beagle barked loudly, tail wagging furiously as he watched his previous owner through the window. Glancing past him, Ruth could see his current owner's worried face peeking out from between the two seats. She had to be strong for Wes, she realised. She couldn't show fear, right now, or he would be scared too. She would treat Shayne as just other colleague then, for the time being. It wasn't as if she were going to do anything nasty to them, she reasoned. There would be no benefit in that and she did seem to genuinely want to come in.

"I can't take you over right away, you know," she told Shayne, in the last, vain hope that she might go and find someone else to take her into custody. "I have to take him up to a friend's, first."

"Not a problem," Shayne smiled wanly. "I'll chum you."

"Excellent." Riding around London in a car that wasn't hers, with a child that wasn't hers in the back seat, a known felon in the front, and a deniable SIS asset (presumably unconscious, drugged or worse) in the boot; what could possibly go wrong? Breathing out, she steadied her composure and gestured to the RangeRover. "I'll drive, shall I?"

.

_A/N - Sorry about all of the angst in these last few chapters, and about the enormous gap between posts. I have been quite ill these past two weeks and didn't really feel up to doing anything but lying in a horizontal position and complaining to my (very understanding and patient) partner that I was dying. _

_Anyway, the death didn't take and I've finally perked up a bit, so I thought I should posting some more of this now very overdue fic. The rest should follow in next few days. Four more chapters, I think. And maybe an epilogue. Action, intrigue and - just maybe - a happy ending ahead. Hope you're all still enjoying. Best wishes and a Happy New Year! -Silver. _


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N - Some heavy action and the occasional swear word, over the next few chapters, while I bring the plot in to the close. Hope you are all continue to read and enjoy. Many thanks to those who have taken the time to leave a review - guest and signed-in readers. Every comment is appreciated. All my best, -Silver._

_Chapter 23 – Doghouse_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Harry arrived back on the Grid, from a meeting with the DG, to hear the dulcet and familiar tones of Bethan Shayne echoing out of the briefing room. Hardly any of his staff were to be seen. Glancing over at the glass wall of the large room, Harry could see their heads silhouetted there. Erin, Dimitri, Calum, and Ruth at the head of the table, sitting beside Shayne herself. Ruth had sent him a message explaining what was going on, but Harry had not fully believed it until he saw it with his own eyes. Bethan Shayne, Six's golden girl, handing herself in. Bethan Shayne, brought in by his own field-shy analyst. It all seemed a bit surreal. The fact that she had an asset with her, however, and information on a possible attack, made him slightly more optimistic about the situation.

They were drawing a blank, so far, on Price. Tariq and two junior technical analysts were all tapping away like mad things, trying to identify where he had last used his account, but the bank's encryptions were proving harder than they had expected to crack. They needed a solid lead from the ground. And Shayne had that – one good enough to surrender her freedom for, apparently. Taking a steadying breath, Harry walked forwards, arriving at the briefing room doorway just in time to catch the tail-end of the conversation going on within.

"...and the upshot of all of this was we ended up in this squalid little hotel, just off the coast, in Tangier. Harry managed to get the target up to this room – I have no idea how, because neither of us had washed for days and I'm fairly sure his clothes were covered in blood. Anyway," she continued, "the objective of the operation was to find out the target's lover's location, in order to coordinate a strike on him and his allies, but our target was having none of it. As soon as she and Harry get to the hotel room, she turns around and, for all intents and purposes, jumps him." A brief snigger passed around the room. "Now, you must remember," Shayne continued, "this hotel room is a safe room rented out by the company, so it has cameras all over. We can see Harry getting mouth-to-mouth, from this Moroccan Prince's young mistress, in beautiful high resolution colour..."

Harry felt a flicker of unease in the pit of his stomach. He knew the end of this story and he was fairly sure he didn't want Ruth to know. Stepping forwards, he made his way into the room, coughing loudly to announce his presence as he went.

Everyone in the room turned to face him as he entered, their faces showing some sign of either guilt or disappointment that the story had been interrupted. Apart from Bethan Shayne, that was. Shayne's face split into a wide smile, her features relaxing. Standing up from her chair, she made her way over to Harry as he walked in and, catching him very slightly by surprise, drew him into a short hug.

"Hello Harry," she said, giving him a squeeze as he patted her back briefly. "You're just in time. We're about to hear how you earned the nickname 'Shaky'."

He gave her a reproachful look as they drew apart again.

"I'm fairly sure nobody wants to hear that story."

"Really? I think it shows an entirely different side of you."

"Hm."

"Maybe later?"

"No, I don't think so, Bethan."

He stepped away from her, giving her a slight smile despite himself. She was one of the oldest friends he had (the only friend left alive who knew that he had once questioned a target while receiving oral sex). She was one of the few from the old days who had stayed alive and friendly through many shifting allegiances of the years; through the technological revolution of the spy world, through the globalisation of terrorism. She and Jim constituted the last two people in the Service who had known him as a young man, thought Harry. They had saved each other a dozen times over. They had cared for each other when they were injured. They had seen both awful and beautiful things together. Whatever she had done, they were bonded. And he was glad she had come in. It pleased him immensely that she had kept her word.

"You look awful," he told her, taking in her slightly ruffled appearance – the dust-streaked coat and slightly greasy hair. "Life on the run not treating you as well as you'd hoped?"

Shayne gave a little shrug.

"I can't complain. This very morning someone gave me a five pound note as I was sitting outside the train station. Paid for my bus fare here."

He gave another smile. "Sit," he told her, motioning back to the chair she had vacated. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ruth, sitting the end of the table. She was watching Bethan Shayne and him with the same sort of distrust she had directed towards Juliet, when she had worked with them as National Security Advisor. A slight possessive air, when Shayne had pulled him into an easy hug, a slightly envious air when he had responded with equal ease. Jealousy, Harry though, feeling a brief flash of satisfaction. So she was not entirely done with him yet.

What with everything that was going on between the two of them, he hadn't been sure exactly where they stood. He hadn't been sure whether her outburst the other night, was the end or just an enormous hurdle. She had been so angry that, at the time, it had certainly felt like the end. Harry had felt downright awful, as he had dragged himself home and put Wes to bed, retiring to his own room to cradle his fast-sobering head in his hands and wonder what exactly had gone wrong. He had felt torn and confused and utterly devastated. Now, though he still felt all of those things, there was just a little bit of indignation alongside them, as well.

What had Ruth expected, after all? She had pushed him and pulled at him, all these years – giving a little then taking it away again, letting them get close then dashing all of his hopes. Of course he was going to be bloody nervous about them coming together. Of course he was going to feel uneasy about making a move. He didn't want to get blamed for moving too fast. He didn't want to get blamed for doing the wrong thing. It was only natural, he thought, that he had wanted to make sure she was sure. Granted, he had gone about explaining this all in the wrong ways, but his intentions had been good.

She had every right to be angry with his decision, he had decided, but not to treat him like she was doing now. This overreaction was not about the mistakes he had made, it was about her hurt pride. Harry understood that he had made a pigs ear of it all, but really... how was the situation so irreparable that she couldn't _talk_ to him? She had been willing, just a week ago, to let him stick his tongue in her mouth and his hand up her shirt. Why was talking suddenly too much?

He was confused. Confused and frustrated and a little pissed off with Ruth, too, for exacerbating the situation. But... he loved her. And that hadn't changed one iota.

He loved her though she was being proud and selfish. He loved her even though she made him feel like he was being pulled in a hundred different directions. He loved her just as she was; perfectly imperfect, devastatingly human, silly, proud and naive... and beautiful... and brilliant. He loved her. And so, he decided, he would never stop apologising for what he had done. He would keep going forever if he had to. The flicker of jealousy she had shown made him hope that it might not all be in vain. There was still something there, underneath the anger, he could feel it. They were not done yet.

Walking over to the screen at the end of the room, Harry stood next to it and focussed his attentions down on his analyst. "What new intel do we have?" he asked, trying to keep his mind on the professional. He would have time to concentrate on his personal life soon enough, he reminded himself. For now, it had to be business as usual. They had a terrorist to catch, a bioweapon to obtain, lives to save. "Anything illuminating?"

"Plenty," Ruth answered, a little awkwardly, "damned if it helps us any, though. The men who Price was spotted with, by Shayne's asset, are already on our radar and we haven't got any more leads on them than our missing mole. " She looked to Erin, who moved forwards, tapping the iPad on front of her and throwing a photograph up onto the screen behind Harry.

Harry turned to look, arms folded across his chest.

"Youssif Shabaan," Ruth explained, behind him, "suspected as being in the country to launch an attack on Western cooperation, to scare off any foreign intelligence involvement in Syria's civil war. I told you about him earlier."

Harry nodded.

"He's buying something from Price?"

"According to Shayne's asset, yes."

"The Anthrax powder?"

"We don't know. Shayne's asset is involved in logistics for these Syrians. He's not very important, so he doesn't know any of the details, but he did know that there was a good faith payment being put together on his end. The implication was that Price got that now and the exchange of goods and full payment happened later this evening."

Erin tapped her iPad, bringing another image up on the screen. "These are the other two men Shayne's asset saw with Shabaan," she told Harry, taking over in the explanations from Ruth. "We don't know their real names but one of them, who uses the alias 'Malik', is wanted by the French domestic intelligence agency. He is a missile man. Specialises in assassinations."

"A missile man for an anthrax attack?" Harry asked, feeling curiosity mix with worry.

"Like hiring a demolition team to fix your wristwatch," Shayne chipped in.

"It confused us too," Erin admitted.

Harry felt a brief flutter of irritation. Why did none of this make sense? Why was it that, the more they found out, the _less_ it made sense?

Shayne had been running Avery Price inside Five. Price had gone rogue and had begun selling information on the black market. Shayne had tried to get rid of him and he had set her team up to die. They had found Price, with Shayne's help, but he had escaped and taken with him the anthrax he had been helping to guard. Now, he was out in the country somewhere, with anthrax and a bone to grind, with the British government. So why sell the bioweapon to a Syrian group whose antagonism was primarily towards anglo-american cooperation. Destroying the Americans sympathy for the Free Syrian Army's mission was the primary target of Youssif Shabaan's operation here, if their asset in Syria's intelligence was to be trusted. So why was Price selling to them? His interest was in striking back at the UK government. The Americans had never wronged him.

And the Syrian's attack... why a missile man for an anthrax strike? It seemed too brash, too counterproductive.

"Do we have any leads on Shabaan and his merry men?" he asked Erin and Ruth.

Both shook their heads.

"Not so far," Erin cushioned the blow. "But I have an asset in Croydon that I'd like to speak to. That fellow we turned after the failed bomb attack on the MOD testing facility, two years ago."

Harry dimly remembered the operation – a joint affair between themselves and A Section, who had become involved off the back of the money transfer involved. It was where he had first met Erin. It was where he had formed the opinion that she was a very adept officer and why he had not reacted adversely when he had found out that she was to be leading his team in his absence. She made a good Section Head, he thought, watching her now across the room. She would make a good Section Head again.

"Arrange a meet with him," he nodded to her. "Find out what you can but don't stray too far away. We need all hands on deck tonight. God knows what's going to happen next."

No sooner had the words left his mouth when Tariq came flying through the door of the briefing room, brandishing a scrap of paper.

"The bank account we were watching was just accessed from one of our empty safehouses on the corner of Russell and Wellington, near Covent Garden. Unknown MAC address but the software used to bounce the ISP around is the same as Price has used before – one we developed. I've managed to backtrace it and hack into the account as he logged in. Looks like he's just been paid a large sum of money."

All of this was said in one enormous breath.

As he finished, Tariq exhaled heavily, then stood, with his sides heaving gently.

"How much money?" Harry asked.

"Fifty thousand."

"From who?" Ruth asked.

"We don't know yet. I've sent requests out for intelligence from Interpol, the Met, Six and other agencies, but nothings come back yet. SO19 are alerted and on their way to the location. We should probably get our HPA trained team on the way."

As he said it and Harry turned to give the command, Calum was already on his feet.

"I'll be on comms," he told them all as he raced off towards the Grid and the suited officers who were lounging around in the makeshift staff room they had made of one of their holding cells – their on-call HPA trained assault team. "Call me when you figure out what's going on."

"Do you want us to go with him?" Erin asked.

Harry shook his head.

"No. I don't want to risk sending untrained personnel. He and his team have received training from the Health Protection Agency. They know what they're doing. Take Dimitri and get onto your asset. Never mind a meet, find him at his home. His cover comes secondary to our need for intelligence tonight," he said.

Erin and Dimitri stood and strode swiftly away, leaving just Harry, Tariq, Ruth and Shayne in the room.

"Is it likely Price is still at the location?" Harry asked, turning back to the technical officer.

Tariq made a noise in the back of his throat and pulled a face. "Our program took about five minutes to pick up that he had accessed the bank account. I managed to hack in while he was logged in but I don't know if he logged out even one second after that. It's kind of touch and go and that's not even considering the fact that he could have used a relay router and been a couple flats away – with an exit planned should his access trigger anything."

Harry stared.

"It's possible, but I can't promise anything," Tariq rephrased.

"Right." Harry steadied himself for a second, letting the variables and different responsibilities run through him, letting everything tally up and come to rest in the right order. Then and only then did he start to formulate a plan. Fortunately, once he had started, it all came together rather quickly. "Ruth," he turned to his analyst, who looked up at him eager to help – all of their personal problems forgotten in the adrenaline of the moment, as always. "I need an update on what you brought me this morning, on the Syrians. Get in touch with Erin and Dimitri once they've spoken to their asset and amalgamate that in. I also need your take on where they might want to hit with anthrax," he added. "You know what the weapon can do, so figure out where they could best utilise it against an American target."

Ruth's expression shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Prioritise the possibilities and get back to me," Harry continued anyway. "I'll have to be in touch with Grosvenor square over this. If there is a threat to American civilians in London then we should probably let them know."

There was a slight pause, then a small "okay," from Ruth. She reached over and picked up Erin's briefing, doing a quick scan back through it – presumably to access the files on possible locations and damage estimates for several scenarios.

Harry, meanwhile, turned to Tariq.

"Tariq."

The young man looked hopefully over at him and he felt a brief surge of gratitude to have been blessed with such a resourceful and simultaneously good team. They were all excellent officers, all different but brilliant, too, in their own way. Tariq was young and a bit flighty but he meant well and he was maturing faster than Harry had ever expected him too. He would be one of the greats, given time and opportunity to grow.

"Good work on the bank account," he granted him a small lap of praise, noting the way Tariq hungrily lapped it up, eyes flashing with delight. "I need you to get back on it and pick any other details up that you might have missed. Anything might help – other deals he was involved with... anything."

"Got it," Tariq nodded and turned on his heel, heading from the room.

Harry turned back around, finding Bethan Shayne still sitting at the end of the table and Ruth now standing halfway down it, gazing down at a photograph of an anthrax victim from the 2001 attack, in New York. A flicker of need passed through him and, following his sudden urge to comfort, he took half a step over.

"Hard to imagine its a naturally occurring pathogen, isn't it?" he asked, looking down at the photographs on the screen alongside her.

Ruth nodded and Harry's heart leapt to think that they might have just had their first interaction, since Christmas, that was not laced with an undercurrent of resentment. It was not to be a joyous occasion, however, the sadness in Ruth's voice as she continued washed over him, sobering any thought of celebration.

"It _was_ natural," she answered him, softly. "We changed it. The human race perverted it and modified it – weaponised it to kill each other. We took something terrible and made it cruel as well."

Harry felt longing run through him, the need to make her less sad. Quite without meaning to, he reached out his hand towards her, perhaps intending to touch her hand or her arm – he wasn't quite sure. But he never had to decide. Before their skin connected, Ruth noticed his movement and drew back, raising her eyes slightly to him warningly.

Harry stilled.

For a moment, everything hung still. Ruth watched him with that same, slightly unsure, slightly warning look. The blue of her eyes seemed very blue, the expression in them not angry any more – like it had been for the last week, but not quite trusting either. Harry fought the twin impulses to say something and curl up into a ball and stay silent forever. They hung in painful limbo for nearly ten seconds. Then, giving a slightly sharp inhale, Ruth turned and grabbed the rest of her documents from the desk and paced quickly away.

The room was very silent, after she had gone.

Five seconds passed, then ten. Then, Bethan Shayne commented quietly from the side.

"Looks like someone's in the doghouse, Shaky."

Harry chose to ignore her.

.


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24 – Four Hundred and Twenty Five_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Avery Price's safehouse in Covent Garden was un unrented fourth-floor flat, which MI5 had paid rent on for six months, for the use of its back window as a viewpoint over the Royal Opera House. When Calum Reid and his team arrive on site, it was to find that they had missed Avery Price by a number of minutes. They found a laptop and a disposable mobile phone in the living room of the small flat, both smashed into too many pieces to give any hope of information recovery. Calum had his people bag it up, however, and send it back to Special Branch's forensics people. If anything could be pieced together from the rubble then they were the ones to do it.

There was no sign of the anthrax powder, except for a small metal travelling case in the far corner of the room – which proved negative for the biological agent upon testing by the HPA representative. There was soil over the back of the case, the HPA man said, as he did a quick test prior to sending it too over to Special Branch. It must have been buried somewhere, in efforts to protect it while Price was out of the country or something like. Wherever it was, they would find out by studying the soil composition. Fat lot of good it would do them, Calum thought privately. By the time they had figured out where Price had hidden his case – which may or may not have ever been anywhere of significance – the anthrax would be sold, probably used, and Price would be on the other end of the world.

All the way through this, Calum had the distinct feeling that they were dealing with a man who was smarter than all of them. Or smarter, perhaps, than all of them but Tariq and Ruth. He was one of their lot, a technical analyst, someone who sat and planned and assimilated information. Someone who knew all the sordid little details that passed through MI5 on every given day. Someone who had a valid reason for hating the British government and who had the means to exact his revenge. They were at an extreme disadvantage, thought Calum, as he left the men crouching over the broken computer and phone components on the ground and went to stand next to the window, looking out over the view that MI5 had rented the flat for. They were fighting against a man who had neither creed nor a recognisable belief system, which he fought for. There was no way to predict his intentions.

Behind Calum, a junior field officer appeared, nudging his shoulder gently.

"Sir?"

He had never been 'sir' before but he adapted quickly, turning to face the younger man.

"Yes?"

"Call from HQ." He offered out a mobile phone.

Calum took it and raised it to his ear.

"Calum?"

It was Harry.

"Yes," Calum answered, giving a sigh and moving closer to the window, giving himself distance between the other men in the room in order to gain some quiet. "Afraid we've got nothing more than when we arrived," he reported. "Laptop and mobile smashed beyond repair. We have some burnt fake documents in the bathtub next door but nothing which helps us with where he's headed or where he's meeting these Syrians."

"Right. Well, we have new intel on our end," Harry told him, after a second or two of rustling around on his end. Clearly he was walking somewhere. "Hang on just a second, I'm putting you on conference call, in the briefing room."

Calum heard him stop and dropped the phone from his ear, pressing another of the buttons to bring up the video link. It took a couple of seconds then popped into life. The briefing room was framed beautifully in Calum's mobile screen. Harry, Tariq and Shayne were seated around the briefing table, papers strewn across it as if they had been working in there since Calum had left half an hour ago. They probably had, the younger officer thought, adjusting the biochemical hazard mask that was hanging around his neck.

"Right, Calum. We have video," Harry told him, down the line. He was looking up rather than at the camera and Calum realised that the video link must have been routed through the presentation screen in the briefing room.

"Am I on the tele?" he asked, unable to completely eradicate the excitement from his voice.

Calum saw Tariq give a twitch of a smile, despite the situation. Shayne and Harry exchanged a knowing look.

"Yes, Officer Reid. You are on the big screen..." the boss spook said, in an I-am-putting-up-with-you sort of voice.

Further comment was dissuaded by Ruth's sudden flustered appearance, however, at the far end of the room.

"I've got our earlier threat assessment," she told Harry, striding over and shoving a tablet computer towards him. They looked a little less tense than they had done earlier that morning, thought Calum, watching her reach around him and grab a pointer off the table while a frowning Harry looked through the tablet's files. Hopefully the need to work together on something was fixing whatever hole they had ripped between them. Wondering briefly again what had happened, Calum listened in to the analyst's report on the current situation. "Those are Sanderson's blog posts," she told Harry, turning back into him and moving his hand to one side, so that she could flick through the documents, selecting one. "His rhetoric about anti-capitalism and the decline of society brought on by greed and corruption in the British government."

"All true, of course..." Harry muttered.

"Yeah," Ruth glanced up at him and then down again, tapping the tablet screen to bring up another photo. "And _this_ is Michael Alan Sanderson. We've detained him several times on various offences. Nothing terrible enough to keep him in longer than a few months, mainly protests, riots, etcetera... only now he's branched out. His father died a couple of weeks ago, living below the poverty line in the north of the country, which seemed to galvanise him into action. Scotland Yard's been keeping an eye on him because of the blogs and the occasional videos but he's not been serious enough to be on our radar until a pointed threat this morning – claiming to strike at the heart of London today."

"Why haven't we heard about it yet?"

"It's low priority stuff, Harry," Ruth told him, looking reproachfully up. "Tariq fed it through our systems this morning and we came up with no connections or movements which made him look serious enough to put people on. We had too many other threats."

Clearing his throat, Calum felt this was the appropriate moment to ask why Sanderson was concerning them now.

"What does this have to do with Price?" he asked, down the line.

On his screen, Harry and Ruth looked to Tariq.

The young technical officer stepped forwards, looking over at the camera. "He's just paid twenty-five thousand pounds into Avery Price's bank account from his current account in Leeds," he told Calum, looking worried. "It looks as if he liquidated all of his assets to raise the cash and he hasn't bothered to hide his tracks at all, which is always a bad sign."

It sure was, Calum thought. It meant he wasn't going back to his old life. It was the sort of thing they saw before martyrdom.

"So he's buying Anthrax off Price too?" he asked.

"He is a better fit for a biological attack," Tariq agreed. "Traditionally, anti-capitalists and anti-military groups have striven to bring the offending governments down with their own weapons. But," he added, countering that argument, "the vial that Price was guarding held only enough powder for one serious attack and he doesn't have the facilities to grow the strain. He's not a biochemist."

"So is Price selling the bioweapon to the Syrians or this Sanderson?" Calum asked, confusion growing.

Tariq took a slow breath and looked over to Ruth, who looked to Harry, who continued to frown down at the photo.

"Buggered if I know," he eventually answered, then looked up with a decisive air. "Calum, sort out your people over there then get back in. I have Erin and Dimitri interrogating an asset downstairs. Nothing useful out of him so far. Some nonsense about a stolen government swipe card..." He turned to Ruth. "Can you and Tariq please start to-,"

His next words were cut off, however, by the sudden appearance of a young analyst in the doorframe. She skidded in, the door banging off its hinges, in a fashion not dissimilar to how Tariq had entered earlier that morning, with the information on Price's supposed whereabouts.

"Sir Harry!"

"This is becoming something of a habit," he muttered, turning to face the young analyst. "What's going on?"

"The Met's counterterrorism unit have the three Syrians going into the building off North Audley street, Mayfair."

Ruth immediately took the tablet computer from Harry's hands and began to enter the details into it. Calum began to wrack his mind for possible targets in the area. Both of them were beat to the punch by Harry and Bethan Shayne, however. The two old spooks looked at each other, a vague air of worry in their eyes, then Harry muttered, "Grosvenor."

Bringing up a screen, Ruth clicked something then gesticulated up to the large screen on the wall – which Calum assumed he was now sharing with a map of the area.

"The American embassy is two streets away from here, around a corner. You could be right, it could be a target, but they're still nowhere near getting an eyeline..."

"They're closer than you think," Harry said, a little dolefully, stepping out of Calum's eyeline and presumably pointing up at the map. "This building here is connected to this one by an underground passageway. MI6 built a bunker down there, in a blocked-off, disused Tube station, when they moved to their new headquarters in the mid-nineties. There is a passageway to each of these buildings, for escape routes, in case they needed to self-destruct it. You need a high-level government swipe card to get in."

"Like the one that Erin and Dimitri's asset says was sold earlier today?" asked Calum, feeling apprehension grow within him.

"...Yes," Shayne and Harry said, in tandem.

"Give this information to Erin Watts," Harry said, walking back through Calum's field of vision and addressing the junior analyst who had burst into the room – a young, pretty woman that Calum could identify vaguely as Jenny. As she ran away, he turned to Ruth, who was still busy tapping away at the tablet computer. "We need London Met informed and I'll need to talk to the Americans. Can you organise that right away?"

"Yes."

Shayne stood up.

"I can give Tariq an extra hand working out trajectories from the building across from the embassy."

Harry shot her a grateful look.

"Thank you."

She disappeared off, accompanied by the junior field officer who had been assigned to tail her everywhere she went and make sure she didn't get up to treason.

"Do you want my team over there?" Calum asked.

Harry shook his head. "We have Special Branch's biohazard team on call too. They have the same training and I can have Erin and Dimitri in the spare suits giving them information from outside, until they clear the area. We can't wait for your people to make the distance back in. Clean up and head back in here as soon as you can, however. God knows what else is going to go wrong and we still have this Sanderson lead to be looking at." He rubbed one tired hand over his head, looking exhausted but much more in-control than he had done earlier. Calum felt just a little bit reassured by it. "At least the embassy will be running on skeleton staff," his boss muttered, more to himself and Ruth than to Calum on the line.

Ruth tapped one last time and turned the tablet computer over in her hand.

"Not true. The Americans are having a New Years' Eve party for their people over here, in London. Three hundred and fifty attending and more than seventy-five staff."

Harry's expression visibly shifted, becoming more taut. He reached over and grabbed his phone, directing the camera at himself for just a minute.

"Get back here ASAP," he told Calum. Then, as he shut down the video call, he heard him add to Ruth, "We'd better stop this. An assault on an American embassy by Syrian nationals assisted by a British government agent would be akin to an act of war. Four hundred and twenty-five lives... We fail and this time tomorrow London might as well be twinned with Baghdad..."

The line cut and Calum launched himself to his feet to gather the people around him.

"New intel on the ground. Jacobs, Benson and Suresh, you stay and help with the handover to Special Branch. Everyone else, with me," he nodded to the door. "We're needed back Home."

.


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25 – Shabaan_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Over the years, Ruth and Harry had somewhat perfected the art of walking at the same speed down corridors. Though she stood only up to his cheek and his legs were a great deal longer, they somehow managed to carry it off without having to alter their strides too much. It must be practise, she thought, as they headed across the Grid, over to the point where they would part from each other – he heading to his office and she heading back to her desk on the far side. It must just be the years of practice. She had stood at his side for longer than anyone else.

"...and of course," Harry was speaking, his tone terse and strained as he clearly ran through all of what was going on inside his head, trying to formulate a plan. "If the Met have told us then its already through the system and the Americans will know within a matter of minutes. God knows what's going to happen when they find out. It's not going to be pretty."

Ruth inclined her head, slightly, watching Harry's face; his furrowed brow and his worried eyes, the soft shadow of his cheekbone, the slight parting of his lips. He was anxious, more anxious than she had seen him in a very long time, at work anyway. And he had every right to be. This was a bad situation. The Syrians were already in the area, about to launch an attack against the Americans. This Sanderson fellow was also in contact with Price, of course, making the situation even more complicated. Sanderson was an unknown – a man, like Price, without a mission or agenda. They didn't know where he was going to strike but they did not know he was serious. Twenty-five thousand pounds serious. And his sympathies ran far more parallel to Price's than the Syrians' did.

"Harry?"she caught Harry mid-rant.

He turned his head, focussing down on her.

"I know you said to put a junior analyst on Sanderson but I think I can do more good," she stated, a little nervously. Asking him for a favour right was a little rich, considering how she had been treating him these last few days – considering how she had rebuffed him earlier. He had every right to turn around and tell her to stop questioning him and bloody well do as she was told. He was still her boss, after all.

Harry didn't snap, however, just raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

"How so?" he asked.

"Shabaan and the two other Syrian nationals specialise in attacks using surface to air missiles," Ruth stated, coming to a halt, Harry pausing across from her to meet her gaze. "If there is only enough anthrax to make one sale then it makes sense, to me at least, that Price would have sold it to Sanderson. Anti-government attackers like to use irony – to use the government's own weapons against them and all of that. Besides which," she added, "Price and Sanderson have the same objective. It makes more sense for him to have sold the Anthrax powder to Sanderson. I know that the consequences of this attack on the embassy are... massive, but I think that those we risk by not concentrating on Sanderson are far greater."

She watched, anxiously, as Harry considered this.

His forehead lined a little deeper. His eyes slid off her to concentrate on a spot somewhere in-between them. His fingers tightened ever-so-slightly against the tablet he was still holding in his hand.

"There is still a valid risk that the Syrians have the Anthrax."

"And we'll know that within ten minutes for sure," Ruth told him back. "Erin and Dimitri are on their way over. There is a SO19 team surrounding the place as we speak. I'm not going to find anything that Tariq can't, by himself. What we need is information on Sanderson. Trust my judgement on this, Harry," she urged him, before realising the implications behind her words – realising it was what she had screamed at him for not doing the other night.

Harry's eyes flickered for a second, then a muscle twitched in his jaw. He straightened, meeting her gaze more steadily. "You'll be on your own with Jenny," he warned her, motioning towards the junior analyst, beavering away on the other side of the Grid. "I can't spare anyone else."

"I can do that," Ruth assured him, feeling relief that he had not denied her request based on the words she had chosen to use. "We'll get started and, if the other threat clears, then we can get the others to join us. I'll streamline some tasks to make it easier."

Harry nodded and there was a strange little moment where she thought he might say something else to her – something personal and warm, like he used to. Then he looked down again.

"I've got to get in touch with the Home Secretary. No doubt, by now, he's inundated by Americans." No sooner had the words left his mouth than his phone had started to ring. Harry gave a little sigh and quirk of his eyebrow. "Here we go..."

Ruth nodded and backed away a step.

"I'll leave you to it."

Picking his phone up, Harry put it up against his ear and began to walk off in the direction of his office. Ruth caught the words "I'm quite sure, Home Secretary," before he got beyond her earshot.

A small tingle of guilt crept up inside her, watching him go. With everything that was going on, tonight, her perspective on what had occurred between her and Harry was beginning to shift. Perhaps she had been too hard on him, she thought, as she stood for a few seconds and watched him walk away. It was odd, considering it for the first time without the potent rage of the first few days after their row. She was still angry with him, now, but something had changed over the last few hours. It was just working in enforced close contact again, she supposed.

On their last few operations, Harry had taken a step back from hands-on work. He had checked in with them routinely but his time had mostly been taken up with political and management matters. His distance, Ruth realised in retrospect, had helped her stoke her anger to a higher degree. For the last hour or so, however, he had been right in there with them, going through intelligence reports, analysing their information from assets, helping Ruth and Shayne and Tariq while Erin and Dimitri ran up their own leads and Calum investigated Price's safehouse in Covent Garden. He had been right there, with them, and, having him right there, Ruth found it harder to be angry with him.

She had been a little harsh, she decided, as Harry made it to his office and disappeared inside, as she turned herself back to her desk and set down the tablet and folder upon it. She had been a little quick to bite at him and it was mainly due to the bashing her ego had taken. In all honesty, she had just never been turned down before and had not been prepared for how mortifying it had been. However, when she thought about it with a calmer perspective, Harry had probably been right to draw back. They had made so many missteps towards each other, over the years, that he was right to be cautious. How he had gone about it, however – what he had said and his refusal to trust her – had been completely wrong.

He was an idiot, she thought, forcing her eyes away from his office window. Right intentions or not, he could be a completely useless human being sometimes. What sort of dozy bugger turns down the opportunity of sex, after all, just because his OCD need for control is not satisfied?

Sighing, she brought up her login screen, hitting the keys a little harder than was necessary until the irritation which had flared in her chest died down. Logging in, she took a chance to look around the room at her colleagues. In the technical suite, Tariq and Shayne were arguing over trajectories. She could hear Erin and Dimitri's comm. link being brought online by the junior officer behind them, the static noise of an assault operation getting underway. For a brief moment, Ruth wondered whether she should have been with them, helping in whatever way she could. Then pragmatic logic took over.

Tariq, Shayne and the two junior officers who were working with them could manage the communications. Harry would be over to oversee them as soon as he had finished his call. She was best utilised over here, with Jenny the junior analyst, digging up anything on Sanderson that they could manage. Setting herself up at her system, she caught Jenny's eye, motioned for her to come over, and got started.

.

They delved immediately into background checks performed on Sanderson earlier in the day – the ones which had deemed his threat to national security as 'low'. They traced his personnel details through various corporations back to his early years, growing up near Leeds, on a farm. They learned about the changes in government policy which had led to the Sanderson's farm going under, the poverty they had faced when forced to move into the city centre and scrape a living – both of Sanderson's parents working low-paid part-time jobs to try and put food on the table. They learned of the trouble Sanderson had gotten into at school, the juvenile records for an attack on another boy, the revolution he had undergone in prison when he was incarcerated at the age of sixteen, his emergence as an anti-government, anti-capitalist, pro-militia fanatic. They learned of his contemporaries and cross-checked them against recent action, drawing a blank on that account.

They drew up a profile and listed other searches to be performed, recruiting a junior officer who had come on shift voluntarily after seeing the security update memo – despite having only had a few hours of sleep from his double-shift the night before. The two other officers struggled through the vast majority of Sanderson's blog postings and video uploads on his own website while Ruth delved into the murkier world of what he had posted on other people's pages. She discovered a link to an American militia group who had been advising him on the locating of firearms and read on until he cut contact with that group, having made contact with another lot – and an individual who claimed to have information to sell about government weapons stocks. Close inspection of this claim proved it false but Sanderson seemed to have pursued the idea. Something must have led him to Price, she thought, drawing back from the computer as Harry approached her desk, a tense look on his face. Something must have put the two together and from there on disaster was inevitable.

"How are we doing?" Harry asked, walking over and standing at the other side of her desk, checking his phone with one hand.

"Badly," Ruth admitted openly. "We're finding no lack of information on Sanderson but there was nothing to suggest, before this video he posted today, that he was of any real threat."

"What details did we glean from the video?"

"Nothing but a rambling declaration of his ideology and the apocalyptic vision of the future he foresees for the country under what he views as 'corrupt faux-democratic rule'."

"Bourgeois democracy," Harry voiced, quietly.

"He's a rambling fanatic, Harry." Ruth replied back. "Whether his ideas come from a solid basis or not, he is using them to propagate fear and unrest. He is intending to harm." She reached over and brought up some of the earlier articles posted on his blog. "He glorifies the actions of previous attacks against the civilian population of the city, saying that they are as guilty as the capitalists who run it. They support the cause, buy the overpriced merchandise, live in opulent splendour while the men who built those buildings and farmed that food live in ruin and poverty..." she finished reading and looked back up at him. "He starts making less and less sense as he goes along."

"Any military experience?" asked Harry, as if he could sense where she was going next.

"Got through basic training and three months of service but was dishonourably discharged for action against a senior officer." She pulled a wry smile. "It's not just anti-capitalist dogma either, Harry. He has a chip on his shoulder against all authority figures and an axe to grind with anyone who 'capitulates with the government's agenda'."

Harry wrinkled his nose slightly, upper lip curling.

Ruth felt her eyes drag over him for a few seconds.

"How are Dimitri and Erin getting along?"

"They have the three Syrians identified in an upper level of the building. Pinned down with thermal cameras but they can't move in until they have the go-ahead from the HPA, who are trying to cordon off a perimeter. The Americans are jumpy." He held up his phone. "Its on mute but I've been on the line with CIA London for the last half an hour."

Ruth nodded, feeling a rush of anger at herself as the rest of her anger at Harry began to dribble away. He was a useless, dozy bugger at home because he was so very, very good at what he did here. And she shouldn't have expected him to be both at once. People didn't work that way, she thought, there had to be balance. She shouldn't have expected Harry to know what to do. She shouldn't have expected him to feel comfortable being out of his depth in a situation which he had been stung before. Admittedly, he should have known that those words would hurt her, but he had been drunk, she reasoned. He hadn't thought it through. He was insensitive and thoughtless but he wasn't malicious. He hadn't meant to hurt her.

For just a second or two, she considered reaching out and beckoning him around the desk, finding some excuse to touch him – just a brush of her fingers, just leaning against him as they looked through something together – but she resisted the temptation. She was still a little angry at him and it was best, she thought, if they just left it until after this was all over. Once Price was captured and the Syrians were brought in, once they found Sanderson and the anthrax, once it was all over, she and Harry could talk. Once she felt a little less resentment stirring in her, over her bruised pride.

She was about to speak again and go over possible targets for Sanderson's proposed attack when Harry's phone bleeped loudly. He looked down and frowned.

"NYE party has been evacuated to the opposite end of the complex," he read out loud. "Strike still high risk to civilians. Americans are organising their own strike. Like hell they are..." he added, muttering the last few word and clicking his phone, lifting it to his ear. "Jim, if I see one CIA helicopter in my sky, the Syrian missile will not be the only one flying tonight." A pause, where Ruth heard angry words down the line. "I don't give damn, Jim," Harry responded afterwards. "This is British airspace and you are not authorised. We have people in there now, organising an assault. Any strike you make would risk their lives, in the initial blast, and risk many more by setting off whatever the three men inside have in their possession. Yeah. No. Don't be a bloody fool, Jim, I know what we're up against." Harry glanced over at Ruth and nodded to her, indicating that she should get up and follow him through to the technical suite. "Give me five minutes, that's all I'm asking. Yes. Okay."

Reaching Tariq's lair, he dropped the phone back to his side and threw a dark look over his shoulder to where Ruth was standing, having strode swiftly over.

"The Americans have people at a seven hundred meter radius and one Chinook on a flight path towards central London carrying a laser-targeted missile. This situation needs to be rectified before whomever has their finger on the big red button gets too nervous. We are assuming that the Syrians are holed up in there planning to make their finale at twelve o' clock, for the New Year, but the Americans won't give us any more time. They don't want to wait for infrared confirmation of munitions. I think we're going to have to go in blind."

Ruth felt her stomach clench, slightly.

"What do you need me for?" she asked.

"We have a microphone going in now," Harry explained. It's about all we have time to get in over the next few minutes. Dimitri's fitting it against the wall of the room we think they're in. Shayne can provide real-time translation but I need someone there who is officially on my payroll. Besides," he added, "Its been over twenty years since Shayne has dealt with anything beyond Africa. Your identification of dialect is probably better."

Despite herself, Ruth felt a tingle of pride.

"I'll get a headset on," she told him, moving ahead into the room and over to where Shayne was sitting.

The slightly dishevelled blonde ex-spook held out a pair of headphones, clearly knowing of Harry's intentions before he appeared in the doorway and voiced them to the team. Ruth accepted and moved to sit beside her, nodding to Tariq as he put the comm. link through. Immediately, she could hear the scrabbling and scraping noise of the drill bit tunnelling through the wall. Apart from that, however, there was radio silence. Nobody wanted to risk alerting the Syrians to their presence. Dimitri and one other officer were the only ones inside that floor of the building. Everyone else was hiding downstairs. Quiet. Silent. Like shadows. Like ghosts.

"Mic in," Dimitri whispered down the line, as there was more shuffling as the microphone wire slipped through the wall.

Ruth felt herself surreptitiously holding her breath.

"We have contact," Tariq confirmed down the line, then tapped around his keyboard for a moment and shifted that line, too, over to Ruth and Shayne.

The two women leant forwards, cupping the headphones to their ears.

The sound of the three men inside praying was instantly obvious. Shayne relayed the information to Harry while Ruth scribbled down a translation and slipped it over. They had only caught the tail-end of the prayer, however. No sooner had they started listening than the men inside stopped and broke into conversation again – discussion of a football game they had been watching on the television, some angry comments about the Americans they were targeting and, finally, some reference to what they would be targeting with. One of the men, who Tariq quickly matched up as being the man the French had been watching – Malik something or other – was commenting on the missile, describing to the others the damage it would inflict and the blow they would strike to the heart of anglo-American trust. Several quite derogatory remarks were made about the British police force, who had missed them so completely (something Ruth would be pleased to tell them, later, was entirely wrong – it being London Met who had actually alerted the security service to their location) and then the men set about eating some sort of food they had obtained.

"This is as good a time as ever," Harry murmured down his own feed, to Erin. "They'll be distracted. Signal to Special Branch and move in now. I'll inform the Americans."

He took a few steps away from the screen, lifting his phone to his hear and giving a short word to whomever was on the other end of the line. Ruth suspected Jim Coaver, who was still in the country after being sent to oversee the British-Russian deal earlier that month – the one which had been destroyed by Elena Gavrik and resulted in the exposure of a Russian conspiracy. It was just a short message. Then, leaving the line open, he walked back over and leant on the back of Tariq's chair in what Ruth thought was a slightly unnecessarily aggressive manner.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

"Going in through the lower levels," Tariq informed him, as Ruth continued to scribble down translation and Shayne, beside her, ran the results of them – missile makes and models, possible weapons they could have in their possession – through the system, mirroring a copy of everything to Erin, on the ground. "We have contact in thirty seconds."

Harry tightened his grip on the back of the chair. Ruth lifted her eyes to him and gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile – which startled both of them for a split second, before they went back to what they were each doing. Bad time to be making moves to apologise, Ruth reprimanded herself, focussing her eyes once more on the screen on front of her. Besides, she was supposed to still be angry with him. She had been sure of that this morning.

"_At the elevators on floor seven_," Erin reported, quietly, down the line. "_We have visual on the door_."

"Half around the back, through the internal wall," Harry reminded her.

"Small-scale explosives are in place," Erin confirmed. "It should blow through three seconds before we go in through the door. Make sure we have CCTV around the area in case someone gets through. Will confirm three down and any casualties in ten seconds. Over for now."

The line went dead.

Ruth listened to one of the Syrians telling a joke about the other's mother. She heard Shabaan snap back and made a derogatory comment about the first man's grandfather's ethnicity. Then,

BANG.

The interior wall of the room collapsed with the force of the explosives placed against it, from the other side and all three men – crying various words of alarm – opened fire. Ruth heard Shabaan take control after the first few seconds of confusion had happened. He cried for the others to get to the missile and prime it but they didn't move fast enough. Before Ruth had even heard them respond, Erin's team came charging through the door to the small room and gunfire ensued. Ruth could hear Dimitri and Erin shouting amongst the rest. All the Special Branch men were commanding the terrorists to put their weapons down. One man surrendered. The other barged forwards, opening fire, and was presumably injured because he let out an unearthly scream. There was smashing glass. The sound of something large falling over. The shout of 'officer down', though Ruth could not tell, from it, who was down or who had done the shouting. And then, slowly, things descended into more orderly chaos.

"Two targets down, one surrendered," Dimitri reported down the line. "We have one surface to surface missile, slightly damaged but not yet targeted, and no sign of biological weapons. Erin's been shot in the abdomen, no exit wound, and she's bleeding pretty badly. We need medical evac." He sounded worried.

Ruth felt her stomach chill.

Next to her, Tariq faltered for a split second before Harry pressed his shoulder and he confirmed that he was sending medical in, now. He looked to Ruth, who dropped her headset and grabbed the line, confirming with the medical teams they had on standby, several streets away, that their presence was needed.

"How many friendly casualties are we dealing with?" Harry prompted Dimitri, down the line. "And we need confirmation of our three terrorists. You should have the photographs on your phone now."

They heard Dimitri scuffle.

Ruth leaned over and told Harry that medical were just forty seconds away from the scene.

"Two officers injured as well as Erin," Dimitri panted, clearly shifting something heavy on the other end of the phone. "I can identify the unknown man on our system as our dead man here and the fellow the French call 'Malik' as our one surrendered," Dimitri paused for a moment, and Ruth heard footsteps. "Shabaan went through the window after being shot. We're seven floors up so I can't imagine its a pretty sight but I've sent two junior officers downstairs to recover the body."

Harry was just saying 'well done', when when Shayne muttered 'shit', at Ruth's left, and it drew both of their attentions over.

"What?" asked the Section Head, eyes suddenly worried.

"We have a fire escape two floors below, on level five." the ex-spook told him, scanning through black and white images off the street cameras below. "CCTV has Shabaan landing on it, after exiting the room via the window, and climbing down the ladder. He looks injured but is still moving. He's just reached the bottom and has headed east."

"Shit," Harry echoed her earlier sentiment.

"I'll get Special Branch redeployed," Ruth told Harry, tapping in the number. "You'd better warn the Americans. He's heading their way."

Harry did so, picking up the phone.

"He is unarmed," Ruth heard him reporting down the line, to Jim Coaver. "We have a smashed semi-automatic on the ground below the window and the other two men were only carrying one gun each, which are both accounted for. This man is of no threat and could be a major intelligence capture. We need him alive," Ruth heard him stress again. "Relay that to your people."

.

For a horrible four minutes, they chased Shabaan around the side streets of the area, Americans nearly shooting Special Branch, Special Branch nearly shooting MI5, nobody knowing quite where anyone else was in the darkness of the moonless night. It was the Americans who eventually found the man they were pursuing, lying spread-eagled across a pavement near Hyde Park, where he had collapsed in exhaustion. He was bleeding from a gunshot wound to the shoulder and in shock from a bad break to his leg, which he had suffered from landing on the fire escape. The Americans rushed him to hospital and Ruth sat back at her computer, as Dimitri joined them, feeling a little piece of her panic wane.

It did not disappear altogether, however. They still did not know how Erin was doing, Ruth reminded herself. The Section Chief had been rushed to the nearest hospital, to remove the bullet lodged in her abdomen, but they had received no updates on her condition. The analyst's mind kept running over the little girl she would be leaving behind. Rosie. Such a sweet little girl and so full of life and love for her mother. She would be too young to understand what had happened. She was younger than Wes was, when he lost his mother, two years younger than when he lost his father and became an orphan. She would be so confused. What would her grandmother tell her, Ruth wondered, would she tell her that mummy was away? What would the story be for how she died? A car accident?

A slightly sick feeling welled inside her stomach and she knew she needed to get away from the others, just for a minute – get away from the constant droning of the comm. lines. Checking that Shayne had the in-line from Dimitri covered, she told Tariq that she needed to go and check up on the search for Sanderson, and wobbled away from the technical suite. As she made it out into the open Grid, her head began to clear, slightly, the nausea fading away.

Erin might be fine. They could do nothing about it now, anyway, she reminded herself. Now, her chief concern should be Sanderson. They had caught their Syrians but the anthrax was still out there. By the money appearing in Price's account, they could assume that an exchange had already taken place. Sanderson had the bioweapon and that gave them three hours until midnight – when he had stated his attack would take place by.

Three hours. They had three hours to stop a man from using a weapon which could decimate a huge proportion of the population. Infection of a large-scale target, such as a crowded London street on New Years' Eve, could result in the bacterial spores being trampled around half of the city. And with the weaponised strain that Price had been guarding being specially adapted for maximum lethality, more than sixty percent of those infected would die within seventy-two hours. It was a dire situation. Ruth knew that the chances of their success were minimal but she was also equipped with years of experience of dealing with similar situations.

A friend in hospital with a serious gunshot wound, a weapon on the loose in London, an open threat, a madman with an axe to grind; it looked terrible, from this side of the situation, but they had faced this before and they had come through it. They could come through it again. And if the didn't, she added to herself, then she had to be here and help deal with the consequences. Their job was not only about prevention but damage limitation. For now, however, she put the thought of the panic and the military intervention that would follow – martial law to contain the situation, people being bundled into quarantine zones and separated from their families – from her mind. For now, they had to concentrate on stopping Sanderson, then finding Price. They would cross the other bridge when and if they came to it.

Sitting down at her desk, she drew Jenny the junior analyst from her searches for an update. So far, she found out, progress was dismally slow. They had tracked Sanderson into the centre of London using a ticket bought from his credit card and gait-pattern recognition software, on CCTV cameras. Sanderson had pulled a hood down and a scarf up around his face, so that only his eyes and the tops of his cheeks were visible, so facial recog was out of the question. It's novel sister program, designed by Six and 'pimped out' by Tariq, monopolised a greater proportion of the network server and they simply could not run it fast enough to keep up a real-time link. Following Sanderson in retrospect, then, was a tricky business, involving the manual identification of him each time he changed from one series of cameras to another. Each corner he took, each double-back, meant they had to find him manually. Currently, they had lost him somewhere near Charing Cross. They would need the entire of D and C sections running on the same task, Ruth thought, to be able to find him in the throngs surging through the London dark, tonight.

She had finished briefing with Jenny and was leaning back in her seat, passing through her own tasks with a look of intense panic in her stomach, when Harry appeared at her shoulder.

"Ruth?"

She looked up and saw the flicker of worry which passed over him, to see her expression.

"I'm fine," she assured him, as she saw him open his mouth to say something. "What is it you need?"

"Synopsis of what you're doing on the Sanderson threat," he replied, hastily. "I've got a JIC meeting at the MOD bunker, north of the river." He looked pained by the idea. Ruth knew he hated leaving the Grid in a time of crisis. At the back of her mind, however, she knew that Harry was regarded as a resource by upper management. In the event that there was an Anthrax attack, they would want him to be safe in a bunker with the rest of the personnel capable of containing the situation. They couldn't risk losing him. "I don't know how long I'll be," he told her, running a hand over his head.

It was a little tic he did so often, these last few years; something that made him look simultaneously dangerous and untouchable, and vulnerable and alone.

Ruth felt a pang of regret in her stomach. There hadn't had to be such a distance between them. They had been moving forwards. If only he had just been a little more tactful (and she had managed to control her reactions) then they could have been more comfort to each other, in this moment. He was an idiot. (They were both idiots). Still, she couldn't quite summon the anger she had held towards him for it that morning. Seeing all of this made it hard to stay angry at each other. There was so much bad in the world – so much more reason to cling together than to fall apart. They would talk later, Ruth decided, when all of this was over and he came back from the JIC bunker. They would talk then. She would tell him that maybe she had been a little too harsh and maybe he deserved a chance to explain.

Reaching over, she transferred her ten-minutely report on the situation onto a USB stick. Harry would need it where he was going, to brief the Home Secretary. Then, picking herself up from her seat, she motioned towards the door.

"This should have all of our intel up until the last five minutes. I'll brief you on that on your way out."

Harry looked grateful and inclined his head for them to get started.

Walking swiftly, Ruth gave him a run-down of the little more personal information they had gleaned about Sanderson, as well as the methods which they were using to apprehend him – including her advice that they needed more people on it. Harry looked pained again and agreed, saying he had made all of the requests and C and A were doing what they can whilst dealing with their own New Year's problems. A huge shipment of drugs had been discovered coming in, just north of Hull, Harry informed her wearily. And the daughter of a foreign dignitary and gone missing, presumed held hostage. It was a busy night for everyone.

They reached the glass security doors and stopped, Ruth firing out the last few facts about their plans for containment and evacuation, should they discover where Sanderson was, and her list of a couple of possible targets – bankers New Years gatherings and corporately sponsored parties, places where the super-rich would gather.

"We have so many options, Harry, so many bases to cover..." she trailed helplessly into silence, before adding, "I'm not sure how useful any of this is to you."

Harry turned slightly in towards her, bringing them closer than they had been in days. There was a look of submission in his eyes, like he had relented to the need to be nice to her, though his mind was telling him differently – telling him, Ruth expected, that she had been horrible to him for days and probably deserved a little discomfort. "This is all we can do," he told her softly, more softly than she deserved. "This is all we can ever do. We do our best, even when we know its not enough."

Ruth felt another flicker of regret in her stomach. She lowered her eyes.

"What is it, Ruth?" Harry asked her, softly.

Time ticked for two seconds and Ruth bit down on her response. This was neither the time nor the place. They could talk later.

"Nothing. I'll call you if we have any updates," she told him, looking back up but avoiding meeting his gaze directly. She didn't want to share her sudden and irrational desire to keep him from leaving – out into the cold, the dark, the dangerous night. "As soon as we get them in."

"I know you will."

"We'll get all of the relevant places under surveillance and Tariq will try and get the network optimised to deal with our CCTV tracking. I can't promise anything on the gait-pattern recognition software but maybe we'll get lucky and-,"

"-you'll all do your best," Harry cut in, his voice soft. "I know. I trust you – all of you."

Ruth met his eyes.

"I'll update you on Erin's condition, when I get anything," she told him, voice weaker than she would have liked it to be. Then, trying desperately to stop her throat from tightening, she offered out the USB stick with her current report on it. "Here."

Harry reached out and took the drive, his fingers closing around it. For just the briefest of moments, their fingers entwined with one another, Harry's his thumb slipping to lie against the back of Ruth's hand. He curled his fingertips inwards, letting them scrape softly against her palm, prolonging the contact. Ruth squeezed her grip on his fingers, around the USB stick, a little tighter. He felt so warm. So familiarly Harry. They stood that way for a good few seconds. Then, leaning in, Ruth's boss brushed a soft '_thank you'_ near her ear and gently pulled away.

Ruth watched him go, took a moment to gather herself, then slowly returned to her seat and the chaos streaming across her screen. Time to go. Time to work. They could talk later.

.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26 – Sanderson_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Much to his frustration, (and most probably the frustration of all of those stuck in the military bunker with him), Harry spent more than half an hour in containment discussions with various members of the JIC, arguing on the possible methods of containing an Anthrax outbreak, in the city centre.

Everyone had their own opinions on how the situation should be dealt with. Special Branch wanted a soft quarantine perimeter to be established prior to an outbreak and smaller sections of the city to be cordoned off by trained officers with military back up if and when the powder was released. The Military wanted a more immediate roll-out of personnel, in the off-chance that they might be able to prevent panic before it started – a counter-productive move, in Harry's mind, as the presence of men in uniforms all over the city streets would only serve to stir hysteria (and the moment the word bioweapon or, god forbid, 'anthrax' was used, chaos was a foregone conclusion). Harry's counterpart at Six was particularly unhelpful, bringing to the table nothing less than a series of alternative media stories that could cover up the attack for the first twenty-four hours. His offering was what made Harry eventually snap.

Turning on the others, he had told them that, as head of 'counterterrorism', his remit was in the situation now rather than the hypothetical situation of two hours' time and he would be taking his leave to go and ensure that his team had everything they needed. He had retreated to an upstairs room, beyond the bunker, and taken command of a computer system and comm. link to Thames House, to stay in contact with Calum and Ruth as they chased the mysterious Sanderson through CCTV.

They seemed to have things under control – or, at least, as under control as it was possible to have the situation. Ruth and Tariq had finally managed to coordinate their software and their people. Dimitri Levendis, Harry learned, had taken some of his people and was canvassing the streets, trying to figure out the most likely route that their suspect might have taken – allowing those back on the Grid to prioritise their camera checks and re-prioritise possible targets for the attack. Wherever Sanderson was going, Ruth informed Harry, he was moving swiftly and not following the general masses, heading to specific areas across the city. If he was going to strike against a firework-watching crowd or a NYE party, then he was not going to do it from the centre of the crowd.

Ruth sounded a little more controlled than she had done when he left, too, Harry thought. Hearing that Erin was doing well in surgery must have helped. It had certainly given Dimitri's voice a lift. Harry hoped she would pull through but he simply did not have time to think about it – or the situation her little girl would be in afterwards. At least she had her grandmother, he assured himself. It was not entirely like the situation Adam Carter had left Wes in.

He was just running through the details of a cooperative sweep effort with Special Branch, over the phone, when his comm. link pinged and Calum came onto the line.

"Bad news from our officer with the Americans," he told Harry. "He's just called in to say that Shabaan has died in the Americans' custody, on the way to hospital. Apparently he's just arriving at the same MOD building you're in, in tandem with CIA's London man. They're on their way to see the Foreign Secretary."

Harry swore and thanked him. Telling the man he was talking to from Special Branch to continue with his current pattern and to liaise with Dimitri Levendis, on the ground, he turned and stormed from the room – the MI5 bodyguard he had been assigned in tow. They made it down to the front hall of the building just in time to meet the Americans coming up the other way.

"Green!" Harry snapped at the large, balding man leading the procession.

Hunter Green turned, giving him the same arrogant once-over that Harry had received when they first met, during their introduction. Green did not like Harry. That much had always been clear. Exactly why, the Section Head was not sure but it really made no difference, however, as he did not particularly like Hunter Green and the two men had to work together anyway – all personal differences aside. Tonight, not liking each other was actually a bonus, Harry thought, as he strode over and planted himself squarely in Green's path towards the lower floors of the building.

"Would any of you mind elucidating what has happened to our detainee?" he asked, eyeing Green and then the two men on either side of him, noting a young man he recognised as a bodyguard and Jim Coaver – who looked very slightly sheepish. "I hear he took a rather nasty fall whilst in your custody."

"Yeah, he got a nasty bump to the head," Green drawled back, straightening his suit jacket by the lapels. Good label, Harry noted, badly tailored – or perhaps Green had just grown around the waist over the last few months. "Nothing on what your fellas did to him, throwing him out that window, though."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Medical on the scene said he should have made a full recovery, once he had that leg set and the gunshot wound on his shoulder dealt with. No lasting damage, I believe, were the words they used."

Green's lip curled slightly.

"What can I say? Sometimes the doctors get it wrong."

"He was conscious, breathing and in no danger of shock, when my people left him!"

"I don't see why you're so damned worked up about it?" Green replied. "It's not as if it's a great loss to society. The man was just about to fire an armed missile into a building full of innocent American civilians. I'd say he got what he deserved."

"What you do in your own jurisdiction is your business, Hunter," Harry snarled, "but this is not your jurisdiction. It's mine. Here, we play by rules and those rules state that anyone we detain under the prevention of terrorism act has the right to medical attention. Besides which, Youssif Shabaan posed an incredible intelligence haul. Letting your thugs kill him was both stupid and reckless and there will be repercussions."

Green's eyebrows slid up slightly.

"That's a big threat for a man whose term in office is up in what... six days?"

Harry was just opening his mouth to retort when Jim Coaver stepped over.

"I think we should probably get moving up to see the Foreign Secretary. Hunter?" he asked. Hunter Green didn't particularly look like he wanted to go play politics. In fact, he looked a lot like he would rather stay and hash it out with Harry – something that Harry would really relish, considering he was at least five years more fit and six inches less rotund than the American. "Come on, guys," Coaver looked between them. "We can cement our special relationship later, over a brandy or something." He gave green another small motion and, reluctantly, the CIA assistant director began to move.

Adjusting his suit again, he gave Harry one last, long glare, before heading over towards the stairs and the second layer of security that awaited him there.

"I'll catch you up in a minute," Coaver called after him.

Green didn't even look back, just waved a hand dismissively.

"He's almost less pleasant to have as a friend than an enemy," Coaver quipped, turning back to Harry, who continued to regard him with a steely glare. "Oh come on, Hal, it wasn't me who killed your man."

They stood, regarding each other for another long few seconds, then Harry caved to his old friend and let out all of his breath in a sigh.

"Where do you find them?" he asked, turning to walk towards the front doors. It was cold outside but suddenly he needed the fresh air. He needed something to wake him up from the nightmare that this night was becoming – that this week was becoming. "Every prick they send over here is cut from exactly the same sheet of cloth."

Coaver followed him across the hall, heaving a sigh as he went

"Oh, you know, we have special breeding camps where we rear them, out in big sky country. Out in Montana, or Wyoming, or somewhere, where we can hide 'em amongst all the steers..."

Harry shook his head, looking down.

Jim had the same gentle humour, now, as he had done when they had first worked together. And he could draw Harry back from the edge of rage just the same. He had always been a calming influence, the Section Head thought. It was probably what had jelled them together in the old days. Coaver's cool composure and Harry's hot-headedness. He gave his old friend a sideways glance as they both flashed their badges and exited through security, heading out to the street where Harry could breathe freely again. They had been good colleagues and good friends. What had happened between them, with Elena and the Gavriks, had tainted their relationship for years but that was all behind them now.

"I hear you're being promoted," he told Coaver, as he finally made it past the bustle at the doors and down onto the quieter street. The night air was cool and refreshing on his tired, dry eyes.

His old friend nodded in response to his question, taking up position with him on the far side of the gate, breathing in the night air and releasing it slowly.

"Yeah and it's probably why I'm not Green's favourite person," he explained. "I'm getting a leg up to the job he was after because of my assistance in this whole Gavrik Russian fiasco." He cast a very quick look over at Harry as he said it, perhaps gauging his response. He wouldn't find guilt or sadness there, Harry thought, watching him back. Not in these eyes. Harry had greater issues in both his professional and his personal life than that of Elena and Ilya Gavrik. "Anyway, Green's ass is on the line over what happened tonight. Apparently, it shouldn't have come down to the wire like it did – our people should have spotted it before yours... yadda yadda yadda..."

Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"No offence meant to your people," Coaver added. "They saved our asses."

Harry looked back forwards, mollified.

"Our pleasure as always." A few moments passed. He listened to the noise of traffic and people in the London air, wondering if any progress had been made on their case – checking his phone just to assure himself that it had not rung and he had missed it. "I have to say," he said to Coaver, after a minute or so had passed, "your getting a leg up and Green's getting the sack seems a fitting epitaph to the situation."

Coaver gave a little grunt of amusement, then followed it with a sigh. "Ah... I suppose. To be honest though, Hal," he exhaled heavily, "it's just a witch hunt. I mean, Hunter Green isn't the sharpest knife in the box, but nobody could have foreseen what happened tonight. I certainly couldn't have." He gave a little shrug. "I think we should just accept it as lucky, then, and leave it at that. Bandying blame around is pointless. Not that I'm sorry he's going," he added, "don't get me wrong. He's brash, self-interested and his little cunt-stunt, with the Syrian, was downright irresponsible."

"He could have been far more useful alive, to both of us," Harry agreed.

There was another short silence, then Jim turned and gave Harry a last appraising look.

"Right. I should head below." He looked worried. Harry suddenly wondered if he was the only one left, in intelligence circles, who thought they still stood a chance of stopping this attack. Everyone else seemed convinced of failure. "Good luck with it all. I know it's not much, but I've got Langley running this Sanderson fellow through our servers and all of our borders on high alert for any sign of your mole." He gave Harry an encouraging smile. "Lets hope it doesn't come right down to the wire."

Let's hope, Harry thought, but only managed a small nod in reply.

Jim Coaver hung close for another second or two then drew away. "My wife and I are visiting Paris before heading home. We'll be getting a flight through London on the way back home, all going well. I'll give you a call up, when we do, see if we can't pop by. I'd like to show her off to you."

Harry thought briefly of Ruth and Wes and the dog – his own strange, dysfunctional little almost-family – and nodded. It was all too complicated for words.

"See you soon, Hal," Coaver nodded and disappeared up the steps towards the building.

Harry took another long minute outside, breathing in the cold air, then turned on his heel and went back inside too.

.

He retreated down to the bunker, past where the Americans were arguing with members of the SIS, over to the Home Secretary. Begging him aside for one moment, Harry gave him a last briefing on the situation and informed him that he would be heading back across to Thames House for the duration of the evening.

"I have forty three minutes before midnight and I'd prefer to be on-site prior to anything happening. If we don't manage to stop this attack then my team is going to have to coordinate with the military to prevent widespread infection and mass hysteria. I am their commanding officer and I need to be there with them – not squirreled away underground."

The Home Secretary looked like he might argue for a moment, then his expression shifted slightly and he nodded.

"I'll have a driver brought around."

"My thanks." Harry started to draw away then paused, slightly, a strange realisation hitting him. This was the last time they would see each other, this side of what might be a national catastrophe. Thousands dead, riots, panic; the city (if not the country) would not be in the same position, tomorrow morning, as it was tonight. It's leaders would have to be taken somewhere safe, away from it all. It would happen sometimes within the next half an hour and they might be out of contact for a while. "I hope you all get away safely," he told Towers, hoping that it came across as genuine. He meant it that way. He understood their need to be kept safe, even when the public could not be. That was how a government worked, after all. And, whatever the hypocrisy implied in spending so much in saving a few, it would be worse hypocrisy to leave the country leaderless in the aftermath of what might happen tonight.

Towers seemed to take the comment how it was intended, stretching out his hand to Harry.

"Pass along my regards to your team. You are all doing a splendid job and I trust you will continue to do so."

Harry shook his hand.

They were standing on the edge of a cliff, he thought, as their palms parted and they went their separate ways. They were staring into the abyss of what could happen. Hopefully it would end better than his gut was telling him.

.

Walking swiftly upstairs, he gathered the bodyguard who had been assigned to him for the night – courtesy of the DG's fear of high terror alerts and Harry (and he quoted) 'traipsing around the city' – and headed out to meet his driver. The young lad was on time, as always, pulling up to the front of the building as Harry and the bodyguard arrived, and the three of them headed off into the night almost immediately.

Beyond the quiet street on which the MOD bunker resided, London's streets were a hive of activity. The traffic was mostly busses and taxis, Harry noted, as they weaved their way through, allowed to circumvent some of the roadblocks up to ease the congestion because of their government plates. Still, it was worse than rush hour on a Monday morning. Everyone and their mother seemed to have taken to the road for the holiday – including swathes of pedestrians, meandering tipsily to their location of choice for the bells in an hours' time. It took Harry's driver nearly three times as long as was normal to reach the river and almost five minutes to cross it, after getting stuck behind a large truck which was being searched by a police canine unit. Once they got across, things became no less clear. Heading down the embankment was out of the question due to the fireworks display, so they were forced to take the long route around – made even longer by a large area around Lincolns Inn fields being cordoned off for a large street party.

They were just approaching the edge of the congestion when his phone began ringing in his pocket. Pulling it out, Harry answered.

"Harry Pearce,"

"Harry, it's Ruth," came the voice on the other end. Usually, the sound of his analyst's voice would fill Harry's heart with calm, but not tonight. Tonight, her tone was panicked. "We have a location on Sanderson," she told him, words tumbling over each other in her effort to get them all out. "We had to commandeer all of C Section's bandwidth to do it but Calum has a friend over there who owes him a favour and-," Ruth cut herself off, making a little impatient noise, as if she didn't have time for her own explanation. "Anyway," she forced herself on again, "he picked him up getting into a taxi down in Holburn Camden. He paid cash and took a direct route to a park near the City. And when he got out and made his way past the street party to an office tower building whose middle floors are currently empty and up for rent. He's carrying a secure travel case, Harry, he must have the anthrax. Calum has scrambled people to get over there but there's no way they are going to make it in under half an hour. I'm calling to clear the roads ahead of them but there is no way they can make it there and find him and defuse whatever he's setting-,"

Harry cut her off.

"Ruth, calm down." He leant forwards in his seat, signalling for the driver to pull over. As he glanced around himself, a sudden and quite sobering realisation hit home. "Listen, keep doing what you're doing. Clear the streets as best you can, give them priority, give them bloody wailing sirens if you can manage it – just get them here." He reached over and pulled open the handle of the car's door, motioning for the body guard and the driver to follow him.

"Here?" Ruth asked, her voice suddenly weak.

"Pass on the coordinates for the tower office building," Harry told her, lowering the phone from his ear for a moment so that he could activate a grid search map. "And send blueprints and CCTV feeds to both me and Jackson." He glanced over at his driver, who was already pulling his phone out and pressing in an earpiece. "Link him up to comms too. He is on earpiece number," he paused, then read out the four digit combination as Jackson held it up to him. "Thank you."

"You're there," was all Ruth said, in reply. Harry could hear the panic in her voice over the tapping noise of her fingers on the keyboard. Panic for him.

Harry started walking towards the sound of bass and the shouts of the party's man revellers.

"We were driving back to Thames House and got re-routed," he answered as simply as he was able, trying to calm his nervous analyst. He needed her at her best, right now, he needed her at her most brilliant. "Ruth?" he asked, down the line, "can you do me a favour and put Tariq on the line for me. I'm going to need you to get on the line with London Met – whoever is in charge of security around the street party – and inform the top level officers what is going on. Make sure that nothing gets down to the lower officers. We don't want any leaks or any panic. Same situation as earlier," he explained, as calmly it was possible to sound while walking towards a building containing a terrorist and an anthrax bomb. "If he sees any sign that we're onto him, he might be able to set the bomb off prematurely."

"Okay," Ruth breathed, clearing her throat and tapping something else in. "I have the information you asked for sent over to Jackson. All CCTV around the building is running and accounted for. We have Sanderson entering through the back staff entrance using a valid keycard. No alarms are triggered. I've marked the location on the blueprint on your phone." She cleared her throat again, covering the slight waver in her speech. When she started again, her voice was much stronger. "I'll pass you over to Tariq in just a second. He's working out possible trajectories from the building. Do you want me to pass along a message?" Her tone was very slightly reproachful.

She knew he had been trying to pass his call off onto Tariq to save her from having to deal with him. And she wasn't having any of it.

A tiny smile graced Harry's lips, despite the circumstances.

That was his Ruth.

"No," he admitted, striding fast up to two of the security men and the one policeman guarding the back of the street party – arms crossed as they stood on front of the barriers. "Hold the line, for a second." Holding out his credentials, he reached the two security men and the policeman and asked them to call in to hear he was authorised to enter. They did so and, within thirty seconds, Harry, his bodyguard and Jackson the driver were through the security barrier. The policeman followed them through, asking what he needed to do.

"Get in touch with your commanding officer," Harry instructed him. "I have protocol coming through from Thames House. There is a hostile in the area and he is armed. All you need to do is prepare for the event of an evacuation or a containment situation. My office will brief you." He gave the young uniform a reassuring nod. "It's all under control."

"Liar," Ruth murmured in his ear, as he jogged onwards, panting slightly. There was no reproach in her voice however, just a soft sadness, so Harry decided to let her dig at his morality slide.

Reaching the back entrance to the tower building, Harry turned to the two men following him.

"Jackson, give me your sidearm and your earpiece, and take my phone. I need you to go back to assist the police." The lad was too young to join him on what might very well be a suicide mission. "Coordinate with the office. Calum Reid should be on the line in a few seconds," he informed the young man, as Ruth informed him, in turn. "If you can't get a hold of me, for any reason," he continued, "then Calum has operational control."

Jackson nodded and, handing over his firearm, stood back, looking nervous.

Harry nodded to him then turned back to the building, motioning for the more experienced bodyguard to follow him in.

"Ruth?" he asked, down the line.

"I'm here."

"I need you to patch Calum through on the call too."

"Already done," both Calum and Ruth's voices floated in.

"Harry," Ruth added, with a slightly more nervous tone, "I've sent possible locations, based on dispersal device trajectories, to your phone. If you manage to identify Sanderson's location, though, you have to draw back. We don't know if he's armed, or if he has the anthrax, and you only have a small sidearm with a limited clip and no biohazard safety mask. There are too many variables to consider. You need to wait for backup. Calum will be there-,"

"-too late," Harry cut in, softly. "I am aware of the situation and the time constraints involved, Ruth. I'm afraid I know exactly what I need to do."

She was silent for a moment, her breath soft and shallow. Then, Harry heard hear swallow. "Be careful, then," she told him softly. "Please."

"I will be."

.

They entered the dark of the building in single file, Harry's bodyguard – a tall, lean man who Harry could not remember the name of, but who reminded him vaguely of Lucas North – leading the way with Harry behind. At the first corner, he provided cover as they switched places, silently making their way along the corridor and towards the stairwell.

It had been years since Harry had been in the field on an assault mission, he thought, as he his breaths grew steadily quicker, his heartbeat steadily heavier in his ears. He was unfit, heavier than he ought to be. His night vision felt different to how he could remember it too – more hazy, perhaps – but then again he was fifteen years older than he had been, the last time he had done this. Fifteen years was a long time, sat behind a desk, overfed and under exercised. He hoped that, whomever his replacement was, they wouldn't make the same mistake.

_Don't get soft_, he could remember his mentor and boss saying to him, all those years ago. _You get soft and they'll cut through you. _

Fat lot of good your advice did you, Hugo, Harry thought, shaking it free of his head and heading onwards up the stairs, pausing to give his bodyguard cover as he rounded the turn into the fifth floor corridor. Hugo had been lean and fit, as age allowed, until the end and they had still cut through him. Buggering luck. That's what it was down to. Luck and having the right friends looking out for you.

Harry felt his bodyguard motion him on, telling him that the coast was clear, and suddenly wished very much that it was Calum or Dimitri with him in this long, dark corridor. Even if the man beside him was experienced as they came at protection and assault, he irrationally craved someone he knew. He supposed he should be glad they weren't here, he thought, as they turned one last corner and came up to the first of the rooms that Sanderson could be camping out in. They had no masks. If there was anthrax and Sanderson managed to release it, then he was a goner, no matter how quickly he could move or disarm him. He would die badly as well. He had seen the photographs that Ruth had shown them at their briefing. It was an awful, painful way to die. And in quarantine, away from everyone. And what would happen to the beagle and Wes and-,

Harry cut himself off again. No use bloody speculating. He forced his mind inwards, grasping hold of the details to pull him through just as he did when he had been a field officer. That ability was not diminished by time. No sooner had he started than Harry felt the calm moving into him in waves. He counted doorways, steps, lights, exit and entrances, possible shadowy hiding places. He counted seconds and rationed breaths as he and his bodyguard checked the first room and found no Sanderson and no anthrax. He ran over scenarios and numbers of bullets, as they checked possible hiding places two, three and four, and found nothing too. He wished that his eyes were better as they carried on up a floor and found the next five possible rooms. He wished that he could see and then – suddenly – he wasn't wishing anything at all. He was standing stock still as a soft noise ripped through the darkness.

_Thwip_.

The noise of a bullet tearing from a semi-automatic pistol with a suppressor wrapped around its muzzle, then into soft flesh.

On impulse more than planning, Harry whipped his own pistol around in the direction the shot had come from, but he encountered nothing more shadowy darkness and, knowing gunshots would cause panic below, he held his fire. His breathing was so loud he couldn't hear anything, so he held his breath, too, stepping slowly over towards the fallen body of the man who had come with him, the bodyguard whom he did not even know the name of.

He checked for a pulse and found none. His fingers were immediately slick with blood, however, encountering a gaping hole in the man's upper shoulder and neck. Close range, thought Harry, but a lucky shot. This was no execution. This was not done by a man with a sniper's skill. This was done by an army drop out, with a pistol and bad aim. He might have night-vision goggles, but Harry was sure he was the better shot of the two, and he had a torch to blind. The thought comforted him slightly – as comforted as a man could be, knowing he was in the next room as an enemy with a gun, anyways.

Ruth's voice whispered shakily in his ear for confirmation of an officer down. One tap for injured, two for dead.

Harry tapped twice and then followed the back of the room around, edging his way to a doorway and through.

"Harry, we've got one of Six's satellites capable of thermal imagery coming over in twenty eight seconds. Hold tight. We'll guide you to him."

Harry edged sideways into the next room, keeping his back to the wall, checking the shadows to the best of his ability, searching for the tell-tale flash of gunmetal in the faint slivers of light coming in through the papered-over windows. He was just about to settle back against the wall and wait for something to move when the noise of a footstep caught him and he whirled around. A shadow passed before one of the doorways, then went still. Someone coming in or out, Harry couldn't be sure until he heard another creak, from the corridor. He was looping back around, thought Harry, meaning to enter back through where Harry had originally entered the office room. He was meaning to catch him from behind. Best thing to do was to follow him in stages, then, thought Harry, picking himself back up and proceeding as silently as he could to the next room.

The half crouch made his left knee ache. His shoulder and upper chest were sore, from his most recent serious gunshot wound – Tom Quinn's offering, from seven or so years ago. What he wouldn't give to have bloody, trigger-happy, mercenary Tom Quinn with him right now, thought Harry, gritting his teeth as he edged into another doorway and did another sweep. Tom, Adam, Ros – he would take any of them. Ros would be the best. He had trusted Ros implicitly. She had fitted him perfectly. His favourite Section Chief, though he had come to grudgingly care about them all.

What were they going to do, his team, he wondered, if he was shot and the anthrax was released? He should be there with them to deal with it – he should make it so they didn't have to deal with it – he should do something. Holding his breath, he slipped into the next room and something caught his eye immediately. A glint on the other side of the room. A series of wires and metal pipes, a cylinder and four small pads of plastic explosive attached to the window.

Something to blow out the window and a dispersal device, to deliver the powdered payload down on the hundreds below. It drew Harry's eye for only a couple of seconds but a couple of seconds was all that it took for the man who was slinking back through the dark room towards him – not from behind but from the side – to raise the butt of his gun and bring it swinging down against the back of Harry's head.

Stars blossomed before his eyes and he gave a soft cry of pain. And then blackness folded in. And he knew nothing.

.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N - Well, I started this thinking that my three week Christmas holiday was more than enough time to finish and look what happened! One month later and its only just reaching the climax. Well, better late than never, I suppose. Thank you all for your patience and here are two more chapters. The conclusion to the story will be up tomorrow, once I've given it a quick edit. Thank you, as always, for your continued support and reviews. All my best, -Silver. _

_Chapter 27 – Harry_

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

Arms wrapped around the waist of an almost-stranger, skin frozen with the December wind, hurtling at over sixty miles an hour towards a man carrying anthrax and the dispersal device needed to spread it around a large proportion of London's population, Calum was willing to bet that this would not be remembered as the smartest move he had ever made.

Shayne, seated head of him on the borrowed motorcycle, was leaning into the wind, the crest of her cheeks visible above the edge of her helmet, blonde-grey hair whipping out from underneath the edges of it and catching Calum along the chin. There had been no second helmet on the vehicle when they found it in a dark corner of the MI5 car lot, so he was going commando, clinging onto Shayne had hoping like hell that the tires did not lose grip on the slippery London streets. There was ice everywhere, dustings of frost on every branch of every tree, crusting the edge of all of the signs and crawling up the side of the lampposts. Bathed in an orange glow, Calum would have called it beautiful but for the knowledge of what else waited for them out in the darkness of this New Years' Eve. Sanderson and his weapon. Death and pain and suffering to thousands. And Harry, somewhere, maybe dead.

With Erin down and Harry missing, Calum was ranking officer. It had been easy, then, to authorise Bethan Shayne – technically a prisoner – a firearm and assist her theft of some poor sod's motorcycle, to drive out into the night. He left Ruth in charge of the Grid, acting surprisingly in-control. The way she had reacted to Harry's line going dead, Calum would have thought she would have lost the plot entirely when they could not get back in touch with him, but that didn't happen. Spectacularly, her voice was steady when she informed Calum of the situation, over their comm. link. Quite unexpectedly, she pulled herself together and began to organise the search.

She was on the line, now, as they hurtled through the night, giving them directions, informing them of how far behind SO19 were and their estimated ETA. She told them that there were two thermal read-outs from the SIS satellite, hovering over London and they would have coverage over the area for the next hour or so.

"Find him," she added softly, after her report, just a hint of desperation in her voice now. "Just find him, Calum."

It was as good as an admission of love, he thought, from a woman like Ruth. Neither she nor Harry were much good at showing their emotions. They played everything in their lives close to their chests. They were programmed to do so, he supposed, through years of conditioning. This would make them or break them, he thought, if they lived through it.

...though that was looking less likely with every passing minute.

.

They reached the tower block in just under thirteen minutes – a feat accomplished by Shayne's complete lack of fear when it came to driving headlong into traffic. Clinging to her back, Calum had almost been sick several times, managing to hold onto the contents of his stomach just long enough to stagger off the bike at the opposite end and bend double over the pavement next to the security barrier around the party. Giving him a faintly unsympathetic look, Shayne leapt off the bike and ran up to the security men beside the back entrance.

"MI5," she claimed, waiting for Calum to stagger after her and flash his badge. "Our colleagues are inside."

The policeman checked them with Ruth down the line and allowed them through. "They headed up about three minutes ago," he told them, motioning towards the lower entrance as Shayne started jogging off. "Do you want backup?"

Calum shook his head, motioning for the man to stay where he was.

"We've got Special Branch on their way. Just stay at your posts and be ready in case of an evacuation or containment situation." The last thing they needed were uniforms swarming the building. It would panic Sanderson and make it even less likely that they would find Harry alive. "Stay in touch with your superior officer," he told them instead. "And give me that radio." The young man tossed it over and Calum slipped it to one-way and shoved it into his back pocket. "I'll signal to you to come in, if we need you." Then, spitting out a mouthful of bile-tasting saliva against the barrier, he raised his hand apologetically and set off after Shayne, hoping that his nauseated body could stay upright long enough to do what was necessary.

He needn't have worried about his capabilities, however. As soon as he stepped inside the darkness of the building, instinct took over. Focussing inwards on his breathing, Calum drew calm from the silent shadowy landscape around them, as he and Shayne moved forwards into the building. Everything was quiet. Everything was still. The corridors were long and without light. The doors were marked out as darker patches on Calum's vision, square as gravestones in the night. Everything was shades of grey. Grey and dark, dark blue.

They took the stairs in close formation, watching each other's backs, switching over at the ends of corridors, listening to their own footsteps, knowing all the while that anything they could hear their target could hear too – knowing that he held a weapon that could kill thousands and Harry too. And information on Price, Calum thought. That was why Shayne was here, after all. She was here on a vendetta. She wanted revenge on the man who had caused her to lose her team and her lover. She cared about Harry, obviously. The way they had interacted earlier, on the Grid, showed that they cared and trusted about each other. But she wasn't here for Harry, tonight, Calum thought. She was here for Price. She was here to find out anything she could, from Sanderson. And if she couldn't find out anything about him, Calum expected, she would disappear back off into the night like a wraith.

He had known that her disappearing was a risk when he had agreed to take her along tonight. In his opinion, however, the benefits outweighed the risks. He needed backup. Dimitri was still coordinating the panic at the embassy, Erin was still in hospital, Tariq and Ruth were needed on the Grid (and god knew what trouble they would get into if he gave them a firearm – particularly Ruth, in her already half-panicked state). It was just him and Shayne left. And she did have a vested interest in finding Sanderson and taking him alive, he reminded himself. She wasn't the world's worst choice for a take-down buddy... despite being a felon wanted for committing treason against Her Majesty's government.

"I have movement in the window across the way," Shayne murmured to him, crouching next to a window and pointing across to the perpendicular wing of the L-shaped tower building. "One more floor up, three... maybe four rooms along."

Calum looked at the blueprints on his computer, feeling his stomach settling slightly as they crouched still for a moment.

"Three along," he informed Shayne.

"If we take the next floor up, we can come down here," she pointed to a staircase on his blueprint, "and arrive from the far side. He won't be expecting it."

"Or we should split up," Calum told her. "You go that way, I come the other way and keep Sanderson talking, draw his attention as I try to get him to release Harry. I'll feed you information on the room through our earpieces and Ruth can give you our locations by thermal scan. You can get into the room and disarm him."

"Risky," Shayne pointed out. "He might shoot you on sight."

"He might," Calum agreed. "You have a better idea?"

She was silent for a moment, then shook her head.

"No better idea. Give me two minutes to get along the top corridor, then go in and identify Sanderson. Once I know you've made contact, I'll move into position and try and get behind him."

Calum nodded.

"Home, do you copy that?" he asked, into the air around them.

"Copy," Ruth murmured, down the earpiece. She sounded almost as sick as Calum had felt, as he had crawled off that motorcycle. "Good luck."

They raised themselves from their crouched position and took off down the long dark corridor. Calum's throat felt tight. His muscles began to ache, from the prolonged crouch. His breaths began to push harder and quicker inside his chest. His heart was going like mad. This was a risky plan, he thought to himself, but it had to work. Otherwise a fine aerial dispersal of anthrax would rain down on the crowds outside this building and half of those who were infected would die horrible, painful deaths. And Harry too, Calum reminded himself.

All deaths meant something but the death of someone you cared about was a different sort of motivation. Thinking of Harry up here somewhere, injured or dead, roused some strange protective instinct deep inside of Calum. He had never had much family. His father had never been around, his mother had died during his years in University, he had no siblings, uncles, aunts or cousins, and his one stint at being a husband had ended in disaster, but he had found a strange sort of family, here. He hadn't meant it, he would have even scoffed at it, just six months ago, but he was bonded to this team now. And he would protect it. Just as Harry would do for them, he thought, steeling himself before heading into the new stretch of corridor.

The vast dark seemed to swallow his footsteps as he took a long line around the corner. Calum could hear the soft crinkling of his protective gear, feel the heat of the rubber strap of his protective mask, rubbing against his neck. The plastic but of the gun he was carrying was hot and sweaty in his palm. He steadied it, inching forwards. Shayne would be moving faster along the corridor overhead, he thought, swinging around to take the room from the other angle. Before she arrived, he had to pinpoint Sanderson and possibly manipulate him into a position from which Shayne could disarm him. He needed to get moving. He needed to be there. People were counting on him.

The thought sobered the worry in his body, soothed the churning of his stomach. It didn't matter what he felt like right now, he had a job to do. Pushing through the burning of his thighs and lower back, he forced himself to run onwards, still in a half-crouch, avoiding the patches of light that crept in through the windows on the doors of the corridor, keeping to the shadows. Light on your feet, he reminded himself, light like a ghost. Like a spook.

The doorway of the room Sanderson was in was upon him faster than he had anticipated and he hesitated for a moment, upon arriving at it. Did he burst in and raise his gun – try for a disarm by surprise tactic? If you could carry off the authority, some targets would drop their weapons reflexively, before they had a chance to think about it. Not Sanderson though, he reminded himself. Ruth had given him a profile with Sanderson as a man who resented authority figures. Going in and demanding of him would result in nothing more than the bomb going off, his probable death and the death of anyone else he had in that room – meaning Harry, if he was still alive. Swallowing back his uncertainty, Calum geared himself up for what he had to do instead.

Moving over, he opened the door, taking a step into the room before his logical mind could convince him to do otherwise. Inside, it was dark, like the corridor, but the soft glow of a computer screen in the corner caught Calum's attention. A figure was slumped over beside it, leant against a machine which could only be a dispersal device. Calum could see wires glinting vaguely. He could see what looked like an aerosol canister and a fan, winding slowly round. A steady clicking noise came from its rotor blade. Sanderson was somewhere inside here, lurking in the shadows, perhaps deciding whether or not to shoot.

His only chance at survival, Calum figured, was to show him that he was in charge of the situation – and the focus of his attention. Turning his eyes away from the slumped figure, then, (and trying to put aside the not-knowing whether it was Harry or whether he was dead or alive) Calum extended the hand that held his firearm and turned it upwards, disengaging the ammunition clip. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter, followed by the gun body as Calum let it go of it, moments later.

In the silence that followed, the MI5 officer's heartbeat leapt up by about ten percent.

"I've come to talk," he announced, as steadily as he could, into the silent room. "I've been sent by the authorities to negotiate with you, Michael." Using Sanderson's first name was an attempt to establish a personal connection between them. Telling him that he was not the authority was meant to establish a bond, to intimate that they were both just being used by the powers that be. He needed a rapport with this man. He needed some sort of dialogue. "I am allowed to hear your terms," he told Sanderson, "should you offer them."

The final phrase of the sentence finally triggered action.

A click sounded and suddenly the room was flooded with light. Calum squinted into it, screwing his face up against the sudden glaring brightness. Suddenly, the faint lights of the city, behind the papered-over windows, were obliterated. Everything faded in comparison to the overhead fluorescent strips, burning down upon him. A whole five seconds passed before he could see again. And when he could, Calum's stomach twisted with another wave of fear.

The figure on the floor, near the dispersal unit, was indeed Harry. He was bound hands and feet and strapped into what looked like an explosive vest. And gagged, tightly. Blood had trickled down the side of his face. He was alive, though, alive and awake and focussed on Calum across the room. His eyes held caution. And, catching movement to his right, Calum realised why.

Turning his head slightly, he found Sanderson standing, not ten feet away, back to the wall and a semi-automatic pistol aimed solidly at Calum's chest. Dressed in black with military-cropped hair, he looked the spitting image of the composite they had sent out to the police earlier that evening. They had got that right, Calum thought, as his eyes swept over the man he was supposed to disarm and stop. They had predicted he would have stuck to his military training, despite having turned against the country he served, even if they had not predicted quite how in control he would look – quite how calm and composed.

There would be no panicking this man, the field officer realised, swallowing back a wave of fear. There would be no intimidating this man or frightening him into submission. He was a man on a mission. He had a personal vendetta. He had given up everything in his life, made no indication that he intended to survive this, and there would be no reasoning with him. No negotiating. Still, Calum told himself. He had to buy time. For Shayne to arrive, for backup to arrive, in case there was anything that could be done for the people outside and for him and for Harry.

"You are Michael Sanderson?" he asked, allowing a little of his fear to show through in his tone. Let him think he had the upper hand here, he told himself, let him be the authority figure. Placate his need and another might appear, he told himself. Discover what he wants and try to use it to get him into the position you want.

The man across the room nodded, slowly.

Calum swallowed and forced himself on.

"My name is Calum Reid," he told Sanderson. "I am an Officer with the Secret Intelligence Service." Six's moniker sounded somehow more sinister than MI5's and he wanted Sanderson to think it had taken the very best to catch him. (Which, of course, it had – though Calum was in no position to spend time going through the relative merits of Five and Six's counterterrorism analysis units). "I am authorised to talk to you by the British government," he continued, "who would like to hear your terms and offer you the option to negotiate."

He wasn't sure whether the option to negotiate would instil pride or rage in Sanderson. He got his answer soon enough, however.

Sanderson's lip curled, his hand turning sideways, to brandish the gun in a more threatening manner.

"Negotiate?" Out of the corner of his eye, Calum saw Harry twist a little against his bonds. The movement drew Sanderson's eye as well and he turned slightly, tilting the gun at Calum's boss. "Stay still!" he commanded, voice low. Harry stilled and Sanderson turned slowly back to Calum. "I won't negotiate with you people. I don't _need_ to. If they sent you in here then they know they can't stop me," he spat, arrogance flashing across his features and ruining the calm for a moment.

Spotting a weakness, Calum moved in to exploit it.

"You're right," he nodded. "We have the place surrounded and snipers aiming at you, right now, using thermal tracking," he told Sanderson, "but they can't fire. We don't know if that machine is set to go off by remote or by manual detonation."

Sanderson gave a scornful noise at the back of his throat.

"That's the British government for you. Too late to do anything about anything, as usual."

"You were too quick for us," Calum continued to flatter. "The location for your meeting with Price threw us off. We never expected you to double all the way back here, not with the traffic on the streets tonight. We thought you would be taking public transport of some sort. We wasted hours scouring tube lines when we should have been looking at the streets."

"Sometimes the simplest ways are the best," Sanderson responded, simply, flicking the end of his gun. "Lift your jacket and turn around to show me you're not armed."

Calum did as he was told, chancing another glance over at Harry, who met his eye nervously.

Come on, Shayne, he thought inside. Hurry up. There is only so long I can field this bastard.

"We were interested to find out what you aim to achieve, through infecting these people," he said, as un-confrontationally as he could manage, as he turned back around, placing his hands on his head as Sanderson indicated he should. "I mean, the long-term goal, apart from creating terror..."

"I am _not_ a terrorist," Sanderson snapped, shaking the gun slightly.

"Of course not," Calum retorted, quickly, nodding his agreement. "You were a military man. You tried to make them see in other ways and this was the only one that worked. I can see that. We can all see that," he added, gesturing slightly to Harry as he lay on the floor. Create the bond. Make this personal. Dialogue, rapport, connection. He shook himself inside, forcing his mind back onto words. Just talk, Calum, he told himself. You're good at talking. But talking had never been as difficult as it was in those few moments. "We watched the videos you posted online and saw the articles you wrote. But why make this into something that can harm the British public?" he asked, the words falling over themselves out his mouth, each more breathless than the last to his ears. "Where does the anthrax fit in?"

Sanderson turned, his back away to the door for the first time since Calum had entered.

"They are not the British public," he growled, pointing towards the windows, beneath which Calum could hear the steady throb of music and noise of the partygoers. "They are bankers and City workers, they are the ones who drove this economy into the ground but it is the rest of the country who has to shoulder the burden. They should be taken down with the weapons of the monster they helped create. This country is rotten," Sanderson spat, glaring at Calum then pointing back towards the black windows. "These men behind their big desks in their fancy offices need to see that they can't take from the people without repercussions. They need to see that everything they have can be turned against them in the blink of an eye. They need to see that the people can rise and turn their own weapons against them. And once the people see that, there will be a revolution and this country will change and it will be because of what I was willing to do," he took a step towards Calum, opening up a gap behind him, at the door, "what I was willing to sacrifice."

Behind him, Calum saw the door handle move. Thinking of Shayne, his eyes followed it before he could help himself. Across the room, Sanderson faltered. For a split second, Calum's heart sank. He had given the game away. Sanderson was going to realise someone was coming up behind him. He was going to turn and shoot Shayne as he entered. Shit. He had to leap forwards and distract him, Calum thought, madly. He had to do something – try and get the gun perhaps. He knew Sanderson was too far away. He knew that he would shoot him dead, but he had to do something...

He was just about to move when Harry took the situation into his own hands. Throwing his weight forwards, despite his bounds, he shouted something incomprehensible through the gag in his mouth and, startled by the violence of his outburst, Sanderson's eyes switched back over to him, his gun swinging after it – and away from the door.

"Now!" Calum shouted.

Shayne burst in, kicking the door open with such force that, when it collided with the back of Sanderson's head, he was thrust forwards off his feet. What happened next felt almost as if it were in slow motion, for Calum. Sanderson's body crumpled from the knees up, causing his body to fall forwards across the floor. His gun rolled from his hand as it did so and, for a few split seconds, everything held still. Shayne stood, taking gathering her balance as she took in the scene, from the doorway. Sanderson squirmed on the ground, trying to right himself as he tried to figure out what had happened. Calum was leaning forwards, trying to spur his cramping legs into action, trying to throw himself across the room towards the gun. Slowly, Sanderson looked around at him and realised. And both of their legs started carrying them forwards at the same time. And everything started to moving very fast again.

Throwing caution and the possibility of injury to the wind, Calum launched himself forwards towards the gun, reaching it just before Sanderson, who was crawling towards it, commando-style. Seizing the pistol, he threw it away to the other side of the room as Sanderson's hands wrapped around his lower legs, pulling him to the floor.

The world tilted, carpet rearing up as the sky fell away behind him, and Calum found himself tangled with the terrorist on the ground, head aching and limbs thrashing. Sanderson had a good thirty pounds of muscle on him and, as his hands reached towards the neck, the field officer felt a thrill of fright run through him. He was on the floor, being overpowered, and the gun wasn't so very far away. But he needn't have worried. As suddenly as Sanderson's hands had found Calum's neck, they released again, and the terrorist let out a 'huh' of pain.

Squinting up, Calum saw Bethan Shayne's booted foot falling back to the floor, having just collided with the terrorist's chest. Glancing down at him to check he was okay, the ex-SIS officer stepped over Calum's still-prone body and gave the other man a hefty kick, sending him sprawling back onto his back. Blood spattered from his mouth across the floor. Pinning him to the ground, with her knee, Shayne leant over the terrorist and twisted the nose of her gun into his neck.

Sanderson let out a hiss of fury, blood dribbling from his broken nose and lips.

"Bitch!" he snarled, as she leant closer, putting pressure on his neck and his midriff so that he could not struggle free. "You mad fucking bitch, you've broken my fucking nose!" His words were slightly slurred through the blood, slightly muffled through the mess and swelling of his mouth.

Calum could not find it in himself to sympathise.

Picking himself up, he wobbled over to Harry's side and dropped down on his knees there. His head was pounding, his muscles were on fire from the run here and then the brief struggle with Sanderson, but there were things he still needed to do. This was not over. Drawing the knife which he had slipped into his sock, earlier, he cut the bonds around his boss's hands, allowing Harry pull the gag from his mouth.

"Always carry that, do you?" the older spook asked him, gesturing down to the knife.

"Comes in useful, sometimes," Calum quipped back, as he leant down to cut through the bonds around Harry's feet.

"I suppose its pointless to say its against regulation," Harry stated, coughing slightly and wincing as he pulled himself into an upright seated position.

Calum felt a smile well up in him, despite the discomfort. Harry was okay. Shayne was beating the living shit out of Sanderson in the corner, they had identified the bomb with the anthrax, and Harry was okay. All they needed to do now was get him out of this damned vest and get bomb disposal in here to deal with the dispersal unit. The canister would keep the anthrax safe and away from them, for now. The police were only downstairs. Within ten minutes or so, everything would be right as rain. All he had to do was make a few calls.

Head singing, he leant back from Harry's side and reached into his pocket for the two-way radio the policeman had given him.

"Give me just a second," he told Harry. "I need to call this in." Raising the radio to his face and switching the input on, he called down the line. "Bravo Unit, this is alpha one, upstairs. You have the go-ahead for entry. Hostile down and disarmed. We have the device and will be requiring bomb disposal up here ASAP. Hold perimeter for possible evacuation or containment." Then, reaching up, he activated the two-way on his comm. link. "Ruth?" he asked, down the line.

"Yes?" she asked, voice taut.

Calum did not give her long to wait.

"We've got Harry," he told her, letting the words pour out of him like his relief had earlier. "And Sanderson. And the bomb is secure, for the moment. I'm afraid the detonator is on a timer, rather than a remote, and the clock is still counting down, but we have seventeen minutes and bomb disposal are just downstairs. Fingers crossed, we should be back home for the bells," he told her, a grin spreading across his face at the tiny sigh of relief from the other end of the line and the dim noise of clapping and a whoop from Tariq. "How are things your end?"

"Oh, you know," she cleared her throat, giving a short, slightly tearful laugh. "Complete chaos."

"Nothing out of the ordinary, then." Calum turned and looked over to Shayne, who was interrogating Sanderson on where Price was going next. A flutter of anxiety cropped up in his stomach again. He had heard what had happened to their earlier intelligence catch of the evening. He didn't want to be in the same boat as the Americans, come tomorrow morning, when the Home Office started asking questions about who had allowed the detainee to be bashed to seven hells and back. Besides which, he added, they might need Sanderson for information about the bomb and the explosive vest, if bomb disposal weren't able to figure things out. "Listen, Ruth," he told the analyst, down the line, "I'll keep you on the one-way, but I'm going to have to go and deal with something quickly. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll be back in touch in two minutes, on my mobile. I'll let Harry brief you on what's happening, then." They would want to talk. "Over and out, for now."

"Home out," she replied, dutifully.

Standing, Calum told Harry he'd be right back and walked quickly over to Shayne's side. Grabbing her shoulder, he pulled her roughly away from the man she was beating. "Officer Shayne," he hissed, in her ear, having to squeeze her hard before she would part her eyes from the man below here. "Shayne – you've got to stand down. He can't take much more of that."

Shayne shot him a look of surprise.

"This bastard knows where Price is going," she stated, her eyes a little wild. "I need that information!"

No, she needed revenge, Calum thought, a little sadly. But this was not the time, nor the place, to find it. Right now, they needed Sanderson. They needed his information, both immediately and in the long run. He had been in touch with a great number of people to organise this attack, tonight and his information could be helpful in bringing people in.

"What we need," he told Shayne, as quiet and calmly as he could, "is information about this bomb." He gestured at Sanderson, who was coughing listlessly, spluttering up blood on the carpet below. "He might be a terrorist bastard, but he can tell us how it works – whether the canister is on a different circuit than the vest, whether diffusing one will set the other off. We need to get Harry out of that and get this bioweapon back into safe hands. Everything else must be put aside."

Fire reared in her gaze.

"Put aside? You have no idea what I have put aside!" she snarled. "You have no idea what I have been through, these last few weeks, to get this close. That _prick_ just told me that he paid a man to follow Avery Price, after their meet." She lifted a hand, pointing to Sanderson. "He said that he didn't trust Price because he was a government man, so he had an old friend follow him to the airport, to make sure he wasn't reporting back to us or to the police. He knows the flight number that Price boarded," Shayne continued, desperation shining through the enforced calm in her voice. "He knows the destination, the time, everything. Don't you understand? If he talks, we could catch Price. We could be at the bloody airport when he touches down, if you'd just let me finish what I started. I know I can get it out of him, I know-,"

"We can discuss that after the immediate threat is finished," Calum interrupted, calmly. "For now, we have to focus."

A few seconds passed, loud and silent.

"He took everything from me," Shayne replied, eventually, in a low shaking voice. "He took everything that mattered, in my whole world."

"And he will pay." Calum gave her shoulder another squeeze, staring across into the older spook's eyes. "I promise you, once this is over, he will pay. I will personally join you to wherever Price is and I will assist you in whatever operation you see fit. But, for now, we need to concentrate on this threat. We need Sanderson conscious and aware in case we need him."

Shayne stood very still.

Calum watched her, feeling his heart thump in his neck.

They stood like that for almost thirty seconds. Then, eventually, the tension in her body loosened. Her eyes slipped over to Harry and the rage and desperation in them lessened, slightly.

"Harry?" she asked her old friend, quietly.

Calum's boss gave a nod. "We started this together and we will finish it together. We will track Price to the ends of the earth if we need to. But, for now, Officer Reid is right. We need to stop this attack. We need to save those lives, out there," he gestured towards the window. "And we might need Sanderson to do that."

Shayne gave a slow breath and nodded. Then, as if realising she was still holding it, she offered out her blood-soaked gun out to Calum. "You should probably take this," she told him, reaching up and wiping away an errant tear, which had made it past her lids. "I don't think anyone arriving on the scene will think kindly of you, knowing you let me wander around the city armed. My being treasonous and a rogue officer and all of that."

"I think people will think very differently of you when they found out what you did for us, tonight," Calum replied, softly.

A shadow of a smile played around Shayne's lips, for a moment, then she shook her head and crouched back down next to Sanderson. Pulling his prone body over to the wall, she propped him upright against it and began checking his airways were clear. Calum thought he heard her mutter the words 'so bloody young' but he wasn't sure if they were directed at him, so he held his peace. Turning, he walked quickly back over to Harry's side, crouching down beside him.

His boss looked up, taking a break from examining the wires and cables on his explosive vest, to meet his eye. Oddly enough, streaked in blood, wrapped in explosives and half-concussed, he looked more in control and indestructible than Calum had ever seen him. His eyes were softer, though, almost warm.

"You'll be a good leader one day," he murmured to Calum.

The younger officer just about managed to contain a blush.

"Well, I don't know about that," he blustered, reaching out to investigate where the vest was entwined into the electrical wires of the larger dispersal bomb. "I'd probably go mad with the power. Strut and throw my weight around, invent strange protocols for my subordinates to follow, make everyone call me 'Sir'..."

Harry smiled slightly.

"I think you'd do fine."

"Well..." Calum coughed and busied himself in reaching up to check the LED panel which showed the countdown. "Glad I have someone's vote."

They both returned to gently investigating the explosive vest. Outside the room, down the hall, they could hear footsteps sounding in the stairwell – Special Branch finally making their appearance, or London Met's bomb disposal Unit, perhaps. Calum checked his watch. _Fifteen minutes fifty two. _And bomb disposal were arriving, now.

He quelled the tiny flicker of unease with a firm logical hand. They had plenty of time.

.


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28 – Ruth _

_._

_December 31, 2011_

.

The relief which had rushed through Ruth, to find that Sanderson was captured and Harry was found, was always destined to be short-lived. It only took two minutes after Calum's update that all was well for all not to become well again. Ruth, who had busied herself with coordinating Dimitri's ground team to the site and getting them involved in the evacuation, felt a sinking sensation deep in her belly as soon as her comm. line buzzed and Calum Reid's voice floated over it.

"Ruth?" He greeted her with a strangely calm tone, quite different from the jubilant lilt of a few minutes ago. "Can I ask you to do something for me, please?"

Ruth's stomach twisted. Nerves leapt up and bit raw in her throat.

"What do you need?" she asked, her mind seething, her anxiety evident in her voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's Harry," Calum told her. "Bomb disposal are having a problem with the explosives vest," he told her, after a pause of a few seconds. "We are struggling to find a way to disarm it."

"Do we have details on the bomb itself?" Ruth asked, her voice sounding strained, even to her own ears. Her heart was thudding in her throat. She wanted to scream but she knew she couldn't. She had to help. She had to help Harry – so that he could come back here and she could tell him what a prat she had been, these last few days, so that she could apologise.

"I've sent photographs," Calum told her, "they should be coming through to Tariq now."

Glancing over, Ruth received confirmation then felt her hopes dashed a little more as Calum's face fell, looking through them.

"This is bad, isn't it?" she asked Calum, quietly, down the line.

To his credit, he didn't try and sugar-coat it.

"It's pretty bad," he admitted. "The bomb itself is a simple trigger mechanism, not dissimilar to the one that I disarmed in the van the other week. There is no code to defuse it, however, just a countdown panel on the vest. From what bomb disposal can see, it is a relatively new design. The trigger is connected, through complex feedback loops, to both the canister containing the anthrax and the detonation timer. Now, they've figured out a way to short out the loop to the canister and pulled that out, but the rest of the components are all powered in series. Taking one down would blow the lot like dominos. They think," he rounded off, "the conventional method of disarming this is going to take longer than we have left."

Ruth felt her blood cool in her veins, her heart seeming to slow as she took it in.

"But they can do something, right?" she asked, after a pause of about five seconds. "They have an alternative plan?"

There was a pause, then Calum cleared his throat.

"They are working on a few possibilities. Right now, Ruth, I need you to get on the line with our technical specialists and send them a few photographs. The electronic webbing through the vest is intricate but the bomb guys might know a way to short-circuit it, so that we can cut Harry out. We need a good two and a half minutes to safely evacuate the blast zone so that leaves us with seven and a half minutes to figure something out. We'll get there," he told her.

His tone was not quite confident enough for Ruth to believe in the assurance. She had to keep a level head, though, she reminded herself. Right now, they needed to comb through all of their intelligence on these bomber vests and try to figure out a way to get it off Harry. Now, they needed people working out how the anthrax canister was to be transported to a safe biochem lab and placed in the custody of the MOD (because it had been unanimously agreed that the SIS would not be re-taking possession of the weapon). Right now, there were a thousand things Ruth needed to be doing. She couldn't afford to waste time panicking. Harry wouldn't want her to panic, she reminded herself. Let bomb disposal, Tariq and MI5's technical geniuses work on the explosive vest. She would concentrate on her job.

Taking a shaky breath, she asked, "What do you need me to do?"

Calum gave a relieved sigh, down the line. "Okay, I could do with permissions sent down the line to get Bethan Shayne out of here in a secure convoy, with the anthrax," he told her. "We're going to have her it, under supervision, to wherever the MOD want to hold it. She is already suited up and she has had biochem hazard training."

Ruth nodded and brought up some numbers on her phone, while already tapping away at her computer, bringing up transfer request forms and security clearances she would need to coordinate a canister of anthrax moving across London.

"I need you to leak a story to the media, too," Calum added, "something that would account for us having to close down a large New Years' party in the City."

"Gas leak?" Ruth suggested.

"We did that the other week, up in-."

"Yes, sorry," Ruth shook her head, remembering. "So we did. Right, how about an electrical fault with the stage apparatus? Something releasing a possibly harmful gas into the air?"

"Sounds great. Work it up and slip it out." He gave a little pause, then added, "Harry's doing fine, by the way. He's calmer than the rest of us put together."

Ruth gave a tiny smile, though her lips tugged downwards and her throat tightened a little.

"Thank you," she told Calum. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

"I will," the younger officer agreed.

Giving one last shaky breath, Ruth ended her side of the link and returned to her work.

.

Time had never moved erratically than it did those few minutes – crawling along with her terror then leaping along as adrenaline surged through her veins. Every other thirty seconds, Ruth felt had a mini-breakdown, inside, thinking of Harry tied up to an explosive vest, feeling time slipping away until it detonated. She would feel so temporarily overcome by it all that she had to still her fingers and raise her hands to her mouth or her neck, press her cold hands into the flushed skin there, trying to calm herself. It was during one of these moments that she realised that the protocol she had been typing up should have been out almost a minute ago and, really, she was falling quite behind. Calling Jenny the junior analyst over, she put aside her professional pride and asked for help.

The junior staff rose spectacularly to the occasion, the analysis team dividing up Ruth's tasks amongst themselves, save the task of transferring the anthrax across the city – which Jenny and Ruth handled jointly, Jenny keeping her right when she began to panic or slow down. By the time Calum buzzed back through to her, with four minutes left on the timer, they had finished all of the tasks allotted. She had even checked in with the hospital for an update on Erin.

"She's still in surgery," she told Calum, down the comm. line, "but it's looking good. They'll take out her spleen and I believe she needs an upper bowel resection, but there's no damage to her other organs and most of the bleeding has stopped."

"That's good news," Calum told her, but his voice was hollow, devoid of joy.

Ruth leant forwards, closing her eyes as she leant her head into one hand, pressing her earpiece to her ear with the other.

"They didn't find any way to defuse the vest, did they?" she asked, her mind strangely empty now that this moment had come.

Calum breathed slowly out.

A long silence followed.

"Calum?" Ruth prompted.

"They managed to remove the canister and its on its way to an undisclosed location. Bethan Shayne and five guards are meeting up with an MOD security detail downstairs. All of the revellers have been cleared out and the area around the building has been cordoned off, because of a supposed chemical gas spillage, due to a malfunction with the electrical equipment. They're pissed off, but they'll be okay."

"And Harry?" Ruth prompted, her throat tight, barely daring to breathe.

There was another painful pause, then Calum audibly swallowed and forced himself on. "Harry's still here, Ruth. We can't get the vest off without disarming the bomb – not in the time we have left. We're still investigating alternative solutions but... well, it's not looking good."

Ruth raised her hand to her lips, covering them lest a whimper slip out. The creases around her eyes were suddenly wet, though she could not remember her eyes starting to fill up. Her fingers were shaking slightly, as she held onto the receiver. Harry was trapped. They couldn't disarm the vest. They had two minutes before everyone else had to clear the building or risk getting caught up in the blast.

There wasn't enough time.

Harry wasn't going to get free.

This was it. This was his turn. This was the end.

It seemed so surreal to have finally reached this moment. For so many years, they had dodged the bullets, they had saved themselves just in the nick of time. Harry had always scraped by and no more, but this was not a situation he could get out of. This was trapped in a room with bomb. Her breath escaped her in a harsh rush at the thought and, though she hastened to suck it back in again, the almost-sob echoed loudly down the line. On the other end, she heard Calum's lips part, perhaps preparing to say something, but he never formed words. And, realising that this was no time to fall apart, Ruth managed to force herself back to composure. Giving several steady slow breaths, she addressed Calum.

"I know it's against protocol," she stated softly, "but I'd like to speak to him."

"Of course you can," Calum exhaled, sounding devastated, on their behalf. "Of course you can speak to him. Here, just let me hand you over."

As he walked to where Harry was, Ruth opened and closed her eyes again, trying to restore her inner calm. Harry didn't need to hear her panicking, she told herself. Harry didn't need to hear her cry. He needed her to be calm and composed and in control. He needed to hear that they were still doing everything they could. She felt like crying, breaking down, screaming, jumping up right now, commandeering a car outside and driving over there. But, of course, she would never be there in time. They only had four minutes and fifty three seconds. (_Four minutes and fifty two seconds... Four minutes and fifty one_...) Placing her fingertips back against her lips again, she repeated her inner mantra.

Be calm. Be what Harry needs you to be.

Be calm.

The others on the Grid kept throwing glances at her. Though she was seated in the far corner of the technical suite with Tariq, and out of earshot, Ruth could tell that they knew exactly what was going on. Almost every one of them had been listening in to the alpha-one comm. link, between her and Calum, to keep track of activities inside the building. They knew that the bomb disposal team were on their last minute or so of work. They knew that they soon had to leave the building. They knew that, after they did, Harry would be left there. Alone. To die.

They were all watching because they knew the story of Harry and Ruth. The details had been lost to the shadowy world around them but they knew the gist of it. Harry loved Ruth, Ruth loved Harry, they had a long and complicated history full of mistakes and misunderstandings, of frustrated longing and repression. He might be a field spook turned boss and she might be a GCHQ spy turned data analyst, they might be as different as day and night, but they were a pair. They had been a pair for longer than any other member of staff had worked in Section D. They had risked their lives for one another, given up their jobs and died for one another, loved and worked beside one another for almost seven years. They were Harry and Ruth, and their names were meant to be said together.

Ignoring their glances, Ruth concentrated down on the desk ahead of her, pressing the headset closer to her ear. On the line, she could hear Calum moving through the room, hear the shouting of policemen and Special Branch in the background, the reports from bomb disposal and the man in charge of timing them all out. She could hear people's feet as they were ushered from the room – the police evacuation already having begun at four minutes to go. She could hear the sound of Calum's slightly fast breathing as he angled through them. Then, as he lowered the phone to Harry, she could hear her boss's voice in her ear.

"Who is it?" he asked Calum, his voice slightly less sure than usual, slightly less solid somehow – or maybe that was just because it was far away. "Because if its William Towers or any one of his lot then you can tell them to get stuffed. The last thing I want to hear right now is an 'I told you so'..."

"It's Ruth," Calum said, as Ruth heard him crouch down beside Harry. "I'm going to leave the phone with you, for now, and do one last check with bomb disposal, see if they've made any progress." Ruth heard him clap Harry on the shoulder then hand over the phone and walk away.

The phone turned to static for a moment, as he raised it to his ear, then she heard her boss give a soft breath.

"Ruth?"

"Hello Harry," she managed, the words tearing harsh breaths from her throat.

On the line, Harry exhaled slowly, sounding pained. He hated to hear her cry. He always had done. He had a good heart. Whatever he had done in the past, whatever secrets he had and mistakes he had made, he had a good and gentle heart and she was wrong to have ever doubted him. She should have let them talk rather than walk away, she thought, looking down at the desk on front of her and feeling a hot tear leak from her eye. She should have given him a chance to explain his actions and given them a chance to move on. They had deserved a chance. _He_ had deserved a chance. He deserved more than four minutes and twenty seconds more, on the phone, anyway... more than all of this...

"How are you doing?" she asked him, breathing shakily in.

"I'm fine," Harry answered, "honestly, I'm fine." There was a pause, then he added, a little playfully, "See the lengths I will go to, to get you to talk to me again?"

Ruth gave a soft breath of laughter, on reflex, but her mirth was quickly overwhelmed by the sorrow that followed it. Tears flooded her eyes and Ruth was forced to cover them up with the back of her hand to muffle their sound down the line.

Harry heard anyway.

"God, I'm sorry, Ruth," he apologised quickly, sounding pained again. "I didn't mean for... Please don't cry."

_Don't cry, though I'm about to be blown to pieces. Don't cry, though we're about to be wrenched apart, for good this time. _

It was such a Harry thing to say.

Clearing her throat, Ruth tried to resume her usual character in a crisis. Loyal, dependable Ruth. Squaring herself against the wash of emotions, she turned back to conversation, forcing her voice to work although all she wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob.

"I'm not. It's okay..." she cleared her throat again, took a few steadying breaths. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Harry audibly shifted around. "A bit stiff and bruised, but nothing I haven't felt before." While his voice was calm, however, he could not completely mask his fear. This was not like something that had happened to him before, Ruth thought. There had always been options, before. There had always been ways out. This time, there was nothing. Just a countdown timer and a bomb that took longer to diffuse than they had left. "Honestly," Harry soldiered on anyway, clearly doing his best to sound composed, "I'm just relieved that they managed to get the canisters out and the people evacuated. You all did wonderfully, you know. Whatever happens, Ruth, we saved hundreds if not thousands of lives tonight."

"I know," Ruth whispered, feeling her eyelashes being coated with pooling tears with every blink.

They had saved thousands of lives. Harry had saved thousands of lives. If it wasn't for him and his bodyguard going in, Sanderson would have spotted the rest of them coming. They had saved thousands of lives and, for her shame – for her selfish, human shame – she would forfeit all of them just to spend another day or two with him. She would lay down her life for another day together. She would lay down her job and her country, to have a chance to touch his cheek and whisper love against his skin. She would raze the city, just to hold his hand.

Not that razing the city would help, Ruth pointed out to herself. Nothing could help Harry, now. In four minutes, a bomb blast strong enough to break through six-inch tempered glass would rock the building. In four minutes, the wires from his vest would ignite the semtex and send razor-sharp shards of glass through his body.

"Oh, Harry..." she breathed his name like a plea to the air, unable to stand the thought of it anymore, knowing people were listening but unable to stop.

"Calum's checking in with the bomb squad," Harry replied, his voice calm, steady and strong – grounding her as he always had. "They still have a couple of ideas. I know it's tight," he admitted, "but these chaps are good at deadlines."

"Yes," Ruth cleared her throat, forcing out more words. She had to be calm. She had to be brave, for Harry. "Of course they are," she nodded. "This is what they do. This is their job. They'll find something."

.

For a minute and a half, they talked about the operation. Harry gave her final instructions on who should be contacted to do what, in the event that he was injured or unable. (The word 'dead' was never mentioned – perhaps because he knew she could not handle hearing it). They talked about the open tasks regarding the anthrax and Ruth updated Harry on how far along its route to the MOD it was, and then on Erin's condition, in hospital. Then footsteps, on Harry's side of the link, announced Calum's return and both fell silent.

Ruth heard the younger officer crouch down again and heard Harry switch the phone onto speaker.

"Ruth," Calum greeted her.

"Any progress?" Ruth asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.

There was a long pause, then the young officer answered "I'm afraid not."

Any hope that Ruth had managed to preserve was violently to the winds. She felt her body crumple forwards slightly, moved her hand to cover her face. For the moment, however, she managed to hold back her tears and her sobs. She had to remain calm, she told herself, for Harry. She had to think of Harry.

"What do we do, then?" she asked him. "What's the plan?" Silence reigned on the other end of the line. Listening in, Ruth could almost feel the look that Calum and Harry were sharing – that look they sometimes got when their thoughts had aligned, before the rest of the team. They were more alike than they knew, she thought, her oldest friend and newest. Right now, for example, they both knew what had to come next. They both knew what the situation required of them and they both knew that Ruth was not going to like it. "What do we do?" she asked again, though she thought she knew the answer already. (Though she dreaded she knew the answer already).

"Ruth?" Calum began, eventually. "I'm afraid there is nothing else we or the bomb squad can do. Protocol demands that we give our personnel adequate time to evacuate the area before a blast, unless the risk of civilian casualties is high. They are packing up now."

Ruth's breaths started to quicken.

"But... they can't go yet. No. There's still-," she glanced at the watch and cut herself off. There wasn't time. There really wasn't. But what if, in the next three minutes and fifty-odd seconds they were able to figure something out? Wasn't Harry worth staying to find out? Didn't all he had sacrificed for the Service mean anything? "You can't just leave him there, Calum," she pleaded with her colleague, as she heard Special Branch being ushered from the room in the background. "We can't... Harry, we can't leave you..."

"Ruth," Harry cut in, gently, "they have to leave. You know the protocol."

"The protocol only holds if there is no danger to the lives of others. They have to stay," she blustered on, knowing that her argument was flawed, too desperate to care. "They have to do something, they-,"

"I'm not a civilian, Ruth," Harry reminded her softly. "I signed that away the day I took this job."

"Nobody deserves this, Harry," she whispered, mind seething with terror and frustration – all thoughts of being calm and brave now out the window. "They can't leave you there. Not after everything..."

"It's okay, Ruth."

Her breaths quickened.

How could he be so calm? How could he sit there, strapped to a bomb that was designed to blow off the side of a building, and be calm?

"There has to be something we can do," she insisted. "Something else..." The words she had said to Calum, when he had been trapped in the back of that van, next to the bomb, came rushing sickeningly back to her mind. She had told him he had time to get to a safe perimeter. She had told him that ten percent of amateur triggers fail to detonate. She couldn't say those things to Harry, though. Even in the depths of her desperation she knew that he didn't need to hear that – that false hope. There was no way of him getting to a safe perimeter, with that vest on, and the trigger he was attached to was more complicated than the one Calum faced. This one stood only an infinitesimal chance of failure. One in a hundred and something. She knew the statistics but her mind was too wild to settle on them. So, she whispered his name instead, another tear finally leaking down her cheek. "Harry, it's not right... it's just not right..."

"I'm just going to say goodbye to Calum, now, Ruth," Harry told her, softly. "I'll be back on in a moment."

She heard the rustling noise of the phone being adjusted and the faint words of the two men's goodbye.

"Take care of yourself, won't you," Harry told the younger officer. "And the team."

"I will."

"Make sure Erin doesn't run them into the ground with paperwork and Dimitri doesn't destroy the entire motor pool. And tell Tariq to cut his damned hair."

"Well, I can't promise anything there." There was a brief space, where they might have clasped hands, or initiated contact in some way, then Ruth heard Calum step back. "It's been an honour, Harry."

"Likewise."

A pause.

"You should go, Calum."

"I know."

"It's okay."

"Okay..." Another long pause, then. "Goodbye, Harry."

Quick footsteps sounded, carrying the younger officer away, then silence sounded. Harry was alone. All of the Special Branch staff had left. All of the policemen were already out of the building. Glancing up at the deployment Grid, Ruth could them all outside. Glancing over at the thermal satellite view, she could see only one heat source inside the building. They did not have visual. She would never see him tied up to the bomb and for that, she supposed, she should be unendingly glad. Hearing him there, alone and frightened, was terrible enough.

A few seconds passed in dreadful contemplation, then she heard the tell-tale rustle of the phone being lifted and placed back against Harry's cheek, and the warmth of his voice stirred her from her horrific imaginings.

"Ruth?"

"I'm here," was all she could manage back.

"It'll be okay, you know," he murmured to her. "I promise it will be."

Something twisted horribly within her. How could he possibly promise that? How could he think anything could ever be okay, once he was gone from the world? He was _everything_ to her. She could see that clearly now, in hindsight. Her job was a good job, but it wouldn't keep her warm at night. Her hobbies were distracting but they did not make her feel alive. Her house was pleasant enough, but it did not make her feel whole, or safe, or home. Harry did all of those things. They had rarely had the chance to taste intimacy but, when they had, they had felt so perfect together. And, while part of Ruth still wondered if they had ever been meant for it – while part of her thought there was no way they could last, after what they had done to one another – all of her still wanted to try.

That was what human beings did, after all, wasn't it? Try. Try against all that was stacked against them. Try to be part of something, try to belong. She belonged with him, Ruth thought, feeling horrible certainty flood through her. She belonged with him, to him. She loved him. He was the most important thing in her life. All the rest of it was trivial. And now, when she had only just begun to see that, he was going to be taken away.

On the other end of the comm. link, a few seconds passed with just Harry's soft breaths to fill them. Gathering herself, Ruth forced herself to continue on. They didn't have long and there were things she needed to say. This was no time to hold back. Though the rest of the Grid were listening in, though this would be recorded somewhere in MI5 archives, she could not hold back. Harry was more important than all of that and, if this was to be the last time they ever spoke, then she wanted it to be honest.

Strangely, she felt calmer once she had decided this.

Standing from her seat, she walked through to Harry's office and closed the door behind her. Nobody said a thing. Nobody even watched her go. Everybody's eyes remained glued on their screens or their documents, knowing what was coming next. Ruth was going to say goodbye and then Harry was going to die, and they were going to hear it over the comm. link. As she walked across the office, the Grid was quiet, behind the closed blinds. The usual chatter was reduced to a faintest buzz and the tapping of keyboards. Sitting down in Harry's chair, Ruth breathed her surroundings in. It was comforting. Harry's scent was heavy in the room – his cologne, coupled with the soap he used and something distinctly male. Paper too. The place smelt of paper and wood and Harry. Just Harry.

"Harry." Cradling her forehead in her hand, Ruth leant against the desk, letting her fingers gently shade her eyes. The restricted view of the desk was soothing. Everything around her was cut off. Here, the rest of the world was nothing. There was just her, in Harry's place, amidst his scent, with his voice in her ear. "How long?" she asked him, softly.

"Two minutes, seven seconds." He sounded slightly breathless.

She exhaled slowly.

"Harry, there's something I need to say..."

"You don't have to," he interrupted, voice warm but sad. "Honestly, Ruth, there is not a single thing either of us need say. We know everything important."

She pressed her fingers into her lips, knowing he was right, knowing that they both knew how any conversation would go. It would start with apologies for what they had done, in the line of duty. Then they would apologise for the rejections they had thrown at each other. They would thank each other, for the times they had laid their lives on the line. And they would say what they had been meaning to say for five years. The last part was the only part which held any importance.

"What of things we want to say, then?" she asked him, thinking of that day on the pier and how she had regretted not letting him speak his feelings.

Harry was silent for a moment, then he murmured, "I think we know all of that too."

Ruth smiled, though her body had begun to convulse with sobs, though her cheeks were wet again beneath her hands.

"God, Harry..."

"I need you to do something for me, Ruth," he continued, in a voice of enforced calm. "The Service has all of my wishes down on record but there are two letters for Graham and Catherine," he paused and then continued, "I'd like it if it was you who delivered them, when the time comes. I would like the news to come from someone who knew me, someone I loved."

The tears spilled over and she pressed her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

"Can you do that?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded, breathing roughly. "Of course. Anything."

"And take care of the team," Harry added. "I know they already know..." he paused, gathering himself. His breathing was becoming somewhat irregular, somewhat quickened now that the clock was approaching one minute left. "I know that they know how grateful I am, but tell them anyway. Tell them that they did everything they could. They did wonderfully. You did wonderfully," he added, with a slightly shaky sigh at the end of it.

"Harry..."

"My solicitor has instructions to pass on guardianship of Wes to you and Malcolm, pending Social Services approval. I don't know how it will all pan out, with the stringent rules they keep, and I know its an imposition but Adam wouldn't want him to be with strangers. He's a good boy, Ruth. I just..." he paused and swallowed, then forced himself on. Not much time left, thought Ruth, cheeks wet with tears. Not much time left. "...please take care of him," Harry asked her. "He won't understand any of this, now, but he will someday. Tell him about his parents. Tell him who they were and what they believed."

"I'll tell him about you, too."

"I know you will."

Ruth could hear him smiling. She could picture it in her mind eye, the way his mouth tilted, the changing creases across his face, the soft, sad eyes.

There were a few seconds silence, then he pressed on.

"Take care of yourself, too, Ruth," he told her. "Go on that tour you always talked about. See those places you dreamed of seeing. And you remember the house you were talking to me about, the other day?" he asked, referring to a conversation they had held just under two weeks ago, the night she had come back to his for tea. "You said you had always wanted a little house in the country, somewhere near the coast?"

"Yes?"

"You should do it. You should find a place and buy it." He paused, breathing sharply in as she exhaled – their breaths blending with agonising harmony. "You should find somewhere beautiful and wild, with wide open spaces, away from the city and all of this. You should buy it and go there, and be happy."

"I don't want to go anywhere without you," Ruth half spoke, half sobbed. "...I don't want you to go anywhere..." Another sob shook her and she wiped at her face with shaking hands, finding more tears there.

"I don't want to go either," he whispered back, "but sometimes we don't get to make these choices."

She started crying properly, then.

This shouldn't be how it happened. This shouldn't be how he was taken. He shouldn't be uncomfortable, hurt and scared, tied to a steel beam and wrapped in an explosive vest. If he had to die, she thought, it should be in thirty years' time, as an old man, warm and safe and peaceful in bed. With her. Beside her. That was where he was meant to be. This wasn't right. This wasn't the way they were supposed to be parted – wrenched so cruelly away when they had only just started to come together. They weren't meant for this. They might not be meant for a happily ever after, but they weren't meant for this.

The clock ticked over to fifty-nine seconds.

"Fifty-nine," she whispered the time out loud, then gave a tiny half-strangled noise. "God, Harry..."

"Talk to me," he asked, softly. "Please, I'd like to hear your voice." Suddenly, he didn't sound calm, or self-assured. He didn't sound like Harry Pearce, boss spook. He sounded startlingly human and afraid. Just fragile, breakable flesh and bone. And scared. And he just wanted to hear her voice.

"Okay." Closing her eyes, Ruth leant back in his seat. Suddenly, it didn't matter that everyone could hear them. It wouldn't have mattered if she were standing in front of them on a stage. All that mattered was Harry. Harry was alone and scared. She didn't want him to die scared. If he had to die, it shouldn't be like that

Reaching out, she picked up the scarf he had left on his desk, forgotten in his haste to leave earlier, and pressed it into her face, inhaling him gently. Her mind stilled at the connection and memories flooded in, taking no time at all. A second passed, but a thousand fleeting looks and touches paraded before her eyes.

_Harry catching her eye across the Grid, a faint look of surprise in his eyes as he finds her watching back. Harry laughing at something, just a hint of a laugh and only for her. Harry brushing his hand against her back as he steers her towards a door, towards a car, towards a desk, as he takes her wrist in his hand, to stop her from stepping out into a street. Harry's fingers brushing over her own as they exchange a file. Harry's hand in hers the other night, on her sofa. Harry's lips on hers, brushing, pressing. Harry's face buried into her neck and her face into his as they stole a moment in her pantry. Breathing each other in. Tasting. Loving._

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, down the phone line. He was scared. He just wanted to hear her voice. "We're both going to be okay. We're going to go home," she murmured quietly, her voice smooth and almost steady – calm through need. Harry was scared. Harry needed her. "We're going to go home together," she whispered to him, "and this is all going to be over. There will be no more pain or fear. It will be just us and we'll be safe. Just us." Her fingers stroked over the fine wool of the scarf. "We won't have anyone to answer to. We can turn off our phones and just rest. Together. I know we're both so tired of this," her voice strained, slightly, threatening to break into cries, but she recovered it. Swallowing hard, she took in a trembling breath.

The time on the clock read thirty-five seconds.

"We're going to escape from this life," she told him. "We're going to feel clean again. We're going to be safe and together." The time on the clock read twenty-five seconds. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, Harry. It's going to be okay. We're just going home."

Harry's breaths were hard and fast, in her ear.

The clock was at fifteen seconds, fourteen seconds, thirteen...

"I love you," Ruth told him again.

"I know."

"Its going to be okay."

"I know," he was almost panting, now, breaths harsh and shuddering. "This is how it's supposed to be."

"Harry..."

Ruth closed her eyes. She was almost choking on everything she wanted to say. She was choking. Her body was in agony. Her chest ached, burned, constricted. She wanted to say so much but all that managed to reach her lips was his name again, a strangled whimper, as the digits on the clock ticked over. _Three seconds... two seconds_... and she exhaled heavily, her body folding in on itself.

_One_.

.


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N - okay, I admit that cliffhanger was a bit cruel. Apologies. Hope this makes up for it. Last two chapters are up tomorrow. (Didn't have enough time after work today to edit them all). Enjoy these for now. -Silver._

_Chapter 29 – Home_

_._

_January 1, 2012_

.

There were three seconds left on the timer. His eyes closed and all he could see was Ruth and his children and Wes and the team and everything he was leaving behind. His body was shaking, mind seething with all the things he didn't have time to say, all of the missed opportunities and regrets. He didn't want to die. He didn't want it all to end. His existence could be lonely and miserable, sometimes, but it was _his_ existence and he didn't want it to be over. And it wasn't all bad. There was Ruth and Wes and Catherine and Graham. He loved them – all of them – he couldn't leave them. He didn't want to leave them. He didn't want to die.

His body was shaking.

He breathed out.

There was just one second left. It would be any time now. He held his breath.

And then,

Nothing...

One second passed. Then two.

He breathed in.

For a moment, Harry was not sure what has happened. His head was spinning. He had been breathing so shallowly, in the last minute, that the deep breath he took after the clock had hit one sent a rush of adrenaline through his body. For a moment, blinded by the dizzying sensation of it, he thought that maybe this was what death felt like – pain so great that it was almost pleasure. Then the rush faded back and he tasted air on his tongue. He tasted faintly detergent smell of the new office building, he smelt plastic explosive and the metal of the support girder he was strapped to. He felt the rough fabric of the explosive vest against his neck.

This was not death. This was life. This was him. Alive.

Wrenching his eyelids open, he looked around. The room around him was whole, no explosion, no glass and wires and metal. No fire or destruction. The LED panel on the side of his vest read 00:00 and there was a faint scent of burning in the air – something shorted out, perhaps, he thought, head spinning faster, some circuit broken which has spared his life. And, with that realisation that this was real, that he was actually alive, the relief came rushing in and the shaking intensified. Harry gave a harsh noise of surprise and relief, his muscles trembling as adrenaline raced through him. He was still bruised and tied to a bomb and all the rest of it, but he was alive. He was still here. And, as he heard a strangled sob down the phone, Harry realised that she was still there too.

"Ruth?" he managed, through a throat which had clamped tight with fear, just moments previous. "Ruth?"

She gave a half-gasp, half-cry.

"Harry? Harry, what... what's happening?"

"It didn't go off," he told her, joy breaking through the terror and cracking his voice. "The bomb didn't go off. Something went wrong. I'm still here." Despite the sudden wetness of his eyes, his lips tugged back in a smile, feeling emotions soar and mix and intensify together. "...I'm still here."

With a strangled cry, Ruth broke down on the other end of the line, her breaths coming in great, chest-heaving sobs. Listening in, Harry felt much similar. More overcome, even, because he could not even form tears. His body was not sure what it wanted to do. Simultaneously, he needed to laugh, wail and be violently sick. In the end, he wound up doing none of the above, just slumping back against the steel girder he was wired to and letting the relief wash over him in numbing waves. He was alive. He was still there. Terrified, shaking, but still here.

For ten seconds or so, neither of them said anything.

Harry kept repeating the words 'I'm still here' inside his head. Ruth kept sobbing.

Everything felt fuzzy – as if Harry were living it through a strip of thick gauze. He could no longer feel the bruises and cuts on his body, from Sanderson's manhandling him into the explosive vest, earlier. He could no longer feel the aching in his back and knees, from age and cold and strain. He could no longer feel the faint pain in his chest, as his heart beat at nearly three times its usual pace – though it felt as if it had doubled, even, from when he had been sitting their, awaiting his demise. All he could feel was a strange mixture of relief and nausea and overwhelming joy to hear Ruth's voice again. He had thought that it was all over. He had thought that he would never hear her again, but here she was. And here he was... He was alive.

The phone against his cheek began to buzz and Harry startled, dazedly. Pulling it away, he looked down at the screen.

"That's the other line," he murmured. He was shaking so badly that he could not decipher the number.

"You should get it," Ruth urged him, her voice weak between sobs. "I'll t-tell..." her voice broke, then she caught herself, sniffing and swallowing. "I'll tell Tariq to get bomb disposal back up there," she forced out, steadying herself.

Harry nodded, then realised she could not see him.

"Okay..." he murmured, though as soon as he had said it, he realised he did not particularly want to change the line. He did not want to end his call with Ruth to talk to whomever this was – Dimitri, or Calum, or Special Branch, or whoever. He did not think he could handle not hearing her breaths in his ear, her footsteps as she made her way across some room, the sound of a door, her muffled voice... He could not hang up. He had only just not lost her. He could not hang up. "Ruth?" he asked his analyst's name.

He needed to hear her again. His body was still shaking. His breaths were still so quick and hard that they hurt. All he wanted to do was crawl back to her side and submerge himself in the woman who he loved; breathe her in, taste her, hold her against him. All he wanted was comfort.

"Ruth, are you still there?"

"I'm here, Harry," she assured him, down the line. Her voice was still rough and wet, but she seemed to have stopped sobbing. "I'm here, just hold on." There was a pause and he heard Tariq in the background talking to her in a low voice. Then he heard her breaths return to the phone. "Harry?" she asked, "I need you to switch phone lines for me. That's Calum calling you, on the satellite police phone. He's at the perimeter around the building, with bomb disposal, and he needs you to talk to someone, to confirm what is happening with the timer."

Harry faltered. He could not end this conversation. He felt as if the moment he did, this would all disappear – that Ruth and life would be snatched away from him and his reprieve would all be revealed as a horrific, vile joke. He was scared that he would wake up in whatever Hell there was, for people like him, and realise that he hadn't survived at all – that this was just a ploy, designed to punish him for all the things he had done in his life. He couldn't end the call.

"Harry, you need to talk to them," Ruth coaxed, her voice forcedly calm. "They need to know what's going on before they can send people up to you."

His head was buzzing, panic rising. His breaths were coming faster and faster.

He couldn't end the call. He couldn't...

"They just need to ask a few questions," Ruth was saying, but he could barely hear her.

He couldn't hang up...

He-,

"Harry?"

Her voice snapped through it all, firm but gentle, stilling the seething mass of emotion inside of him.

Harry breathed slowly out, then in again.

The buzzing faded away inside his head. Slowly, he began to hear the world around him, feel his own breaths again. His heartrate stopped rushing so fast behind his ears.

"Yes?" he asked, voice rough.

"I need you to switch over the lines," Ruth told him, softly. "Can you do that?"

He nodded, then murmured another 'yes'.

"Good." She gave a pause, then added, softly, "I'll be here when you're done, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded again, then realised what he was doing and shook his head. Stop panicking, Pearce, he berated himself. Calm down. For god's sake. You're alive. You have been alive before and managed fine. Just calm the hell down and get yourself out of this mess. Ruth needs you to get yourself out of this mess. Slowly, as steadily as he could, he lowered the phone from his ear and guided his still-shaking fingers to the options menu. Taking a moment to focus on the words, he carefully switched over the lines and then lifted it back to his ear again.

"Harry Pearce," he croaked, down the line.

"Harry!" Calum's voice burst from the other end, followed by a sigh of relief. "God it's good to hear your voice. What the hell happened?"

"I haven't even the faintest clue," Harry answered, truthfully.

"Well, thank god you're okay," Calum breathed. There was a faint voice in the background and Harry heard someone chivvying him on. "Harry," the younger officer said, turning back to the phone, "I'm going to need to hand you over to a chap called Frank. He's going to ask you some questions about the timer and wires and shit. Bomb disposal need to make sure it's safe to send their people back up."

"Okay," Harry nodded. He wasn't sure he could manage any more. He wasn't sure he could manage any of this, but he didn't have a choice. There was no other way of getting out of the situation. "Pass me over."

A man called Frank came onto the line and he asked him lots of questions about the wires and whether he could see whether anything was burnt out. He asked about the numbers and whether they were flashing, and then if the back of the trigger box was hot to the touch. He asked about how long it had taken before the numbers had switched from one to zero and whether there was a clicking noise – neither of which Harry could answer because he had his eyes closed, by that point. He asked other things too but, after the first few, Harry could not remember anything else. His head was spinning. The adrenaline was surging through him still, making him feel sick and shaky. He just wanted out. Wanted desperately to go home.

He hung on, though, long enough to validate bomb disposal coming back upstairs. Calum came with them, against protocol, and sat beside him through the slow dismantling of the bomb. He didn't say anything, just sat with his shoulder pressed against Harry's, as the minutes ticked past into half an hour; just shared warmth as the shaking in Harry's body died down, then offered him a slightly crumpled tissue, to wipe some of the blood from his face. No words were ever exchanged, but they both knew that Harry was eternally grateful.

.

It was three quarters of an hour before they made it out of the building and down to the cars, waiting to ferry them back to Thames House. Harry spent most of that time staring into space, or out the windows, marvelling at the lights. He felt shell-shocked. Dizzy. Disorientated. Yet strangely calm, once the initial shaking had worn off.

Harry did not believe in fate or god or hidden meaning in every day occurrences. But this was not an everyday occurrence, he reminded himself. His survival tonight had been against all the odds.

The timer on the bomb had been rigged perfectly, the bomb disposal expert had told him, as he had led him back outside. There had been no mistake in the wiring. The batteries had been fully charged. The semtex had been correctly hooked up. The digital clock itself had been faultlessly keeping time. What had gone wrong, whatever had saved him, they could not entirely identify it. Their working theory was that there had been a random electrical surge – a completely unpredictable accident – which had blown a fuse on the timer and sent it into a perpetual countdown. The chances of that happening had been infinitesimal. The bomb disposal expert did not know a figure, (Ruth would know, Harry told himself, Ruth would be able to give him a number), but he informed Harry that it was the rarest kind of failure. Yet it had happened, Harry told himself. A miracle or pure chance or whatever it was, it had happened and he was alive. He still did not believe in fate or gods or hidden meanings, but he thought that, maybe, he could believe in second chances and that, sometimes, they happened – even to people like him.

Second chances were what filled his mind, as he watched the frosted London world slide past his car window. He had so much to live for, so much more than a lonely existence, now. He had two children who he would like to know better. He had a boy who needed him, an irritating dog who he was now bound to, and a woman who meant the world to him. In his last moments, all he had thought of was them. And, so, he made a decision. As the car wound its way slowly back towards Milbank, through the throngs of joyous celebrating people on the streets, Harry decided he wasn't going to do it anymore. He was done, he told himself, firmly. He was done with MI5.

The thought of resignation had been building in him for a while, now. He had considered it for the last couple of weeks as, returning from his time away, he saw for the first time how much the world of MI5 was changing. It was his time to go, he knew, now. The Service would always need people to stand on the wall but his turn was over. He was a good spy, he liked to think, but even the best had to walk away eventually. This was his time, Harry told himself.

Staring up at the Christmas lights still hanging along the buildings in Westminster, he pulled his coat a little tighter around himself and leant back against the car's leather seat. He still loved his job, he still loved the purpose it gave him, but he knew deep down that it was time to let go. In what he had thought were his last moments on earth, he had not thought of the things that would be left undone, if he were to be killed in office. He had not worried about the future of Section D – no, he had known D would be safe in Calum's hands, even if Erin was designated unfit for active duty, after her surgery. Instead, he had found himself thinking of Ruth and Wes and his children. And here, it he wake of everything, he did not want to go back to work and chase the last leads of this through to their ends. He did not want to interrogate Sanderson or tie it all up with the JIC. All he wanted to do was go home. He was done with all of the rest. He was done fighting.

.

They pulled up to the side entrance of Thames House at ten to two in the morning. Stepping out onto the pavement, Harry turned and took a moment to thank the young driver, through the passenger window. (It was the same man who drove him back as had driven him to the building earlier that night – a man who would be receiving commendation for his part in the evacuation of the New Years' Eve party below the bomb, if Harry had anything to do with it). Then, he turned back to the Calum Reid, who had exited the car too, and readied himself to head back inside. He never got there, however. In the time he had turned from the front doors, they had opened and a few figures had appeared within their lit square. The most recognisable and the most important amongst them was Ruth.

Relief flooded through Harry. He had not fully relaxed since he had got off the phone with her, earlier. A large part of him was still convinced this was a dream – that his survival and the world around him was not assured until he heard her voice again and felt her touch. The need to be near her was suddenly overpowering. Forgetting that Calum was even there, he started up towards the building, as Ruth hastened down the steps towards him.

They met in the calmest way they could manage, a tangle of a hug, with him pressing his face into the side of her hair and her whispering his name into his neck. She felt wonderful, beautifully and perfectly Ruth. Almost immediately, the damn that Harry had erected to maintain control on himself, began to fracture. His heart rate soared again as echoes of the fear and the loss rushed back to him. He clutched her closer, whispering her name, telling himself that he would never let go of her again, no matter how complicated and stubborn they could be. They would work their arguments out together, he promised himself, rather than walking away. Yes, he told himself, pressing a kiss against the side of her head, they would never walk away from each other again.

They held together for a good thirty seconds or so, before even thinking of parting. To Harry, at least, time did not seem to matter. The sensation of her pressed up against him was glorious, something that he had thought he would never feel again. Enveloped in the heat and the scent of her, hearing the soft sound of her breaths in the cold night air, he felt calm for the first time since they had parted, a week ago. She was Ruth. This was Ruth, against him, and none of the rest of it mattered. They would figure it out later. For now, all that mattered was that they were both here, both alive and with one another.

Eventually, however, time did move on. Assured that he was really here, Ruth's hands slid from around Harry's sides and she drew back to look up at him. For a horrible moment, Harry thought she was going to step back and away, but – to his great relief – she did exactly the opposite. Reaching up, she traced her fingertips down his cheek.

"You're so cold, Harry," she murmured, stroking a thumb over him, drawing wetness across his skin.

Harry wondered, momentarily, where the moisture had come from before realising that it was tears. He had not cried in years, he thought, as Ruth gently washed them away. Perhaps he had been ashamed to, or scared he would not stop. Whatever the reason, it seemed strangely superfluous now. He blinked and let them fall and she wiped them away, smoothing his skin clean with hers.

"I'm fine," he told her, as she bit her lip and swallowed. "Honestly, I'm fine now."

"Are you hurt?"

"No." He shook his head. "A little bruised from the restraints but nothing that a good night's sleep won't fix."

"How long were you bound?"

"Not long, luckily. Calum sprung me with a flick knife... which I should probably have words with him about. Bloody enormous thing..." Harry added, almost drifting off before Ruth reached up and touched his cheek again, centring his attention back on her, and now, and them.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Medical should probably look me over, for the crack on the head, but I'd sooner just go home."

Reaching up, Ruth's fingers brushed the blood that still crusted around his hairline. Her jaw was taught.

"The lengths you will go to, to get me to talk to you..." she murmured, a half-hearted little attempt at humour.

Harry gave a half-hearted attempt at a smile, pressing his cheek into her palm.

They stood together for another few seconds, then Ruth let out a shaky breath and, standing up on her toes, pressed a singular, very soft kiss into his lips.

"It's good to have you back," she whispered to him.

He nodded. It was good to be back. It was good to be alive. It was so very, very good to be alive. Raising his hand to the outside of hers, he slid his fingers between her fingers and they lowered their hands from his face as one. Joined. Together.

Ruth gave a soft half-sigh.

"I think they want to have a word with you, upstairs," she told him, clearing her throat. She sounded remarkably calm, considering all that had happened. Either she had already broken down or she was going to, spectacularly, later on, Harry thought. He, himself, felt like crawling home and curling up in a ball. He felt like crying until he passed out and then sleeping for a good twelve or sixteen hours. Then waking up next to her, he added, to himself. Next to her, safe and warm. "A few members of the JIC were shipped over here after they received the all-clear on the anthrax alert," Ruth continued, across from him. "I think the DG wants you to debrief with him, Six, Special Branch and Met Counterterrorism. The Home Secretary will probably want to shake your hand and say something poetic, as well."

Harry gave a short laugh.

"Of course."

"It won't take long," she assured him.

Glancing up at the side doors of Thames House, Harry spotted that Calum and his driver had made their way over to them and were now taking a long time to sign in through Security, presumably in an effort to give him and Ruth a little privacy before they all headed upstairs, together. Looking back down at the woman beside him, the Section Head felt an irrepressible urge to pull her back into the car and drive away with her – leaving them all here to deal with the mess of this evening. He didn't want to step back inside that place. He didn't want to risk his mind changing and the great decision he had made, on his way over in the car, to be turned on its head.

Then, Ruth squeezed his hand, and his seething thoughts calmed themselves, slightly. He wasn't going to change his mind. He was done with fighting. He loved his job, but he was done. He was tired of being Harry Pearce, boss spook. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to have a family, have a life, to be safe and clean again with her.

"It won't take more than half an hour, Harry," Ruth told him, biting at her lip slightly after she did. "And then we can go home."

Harry watched her, wondering if he dared ask.

_We? Home_?

"Both of us," Ruth said, answering his unasked question as she reached her hand up and gently wiped his cheeks free again, smoothing away any last vestiges of the earlier tears. Her eyes slipped across his face and she looked, just for a moment, like she might lean in and kiss him again. Then she drew back, forcing control over herself. They were still at work. Life-affirming experiences aside, it was hardly the place. "I'd like to go home, together," she told him, eyes very slightly nervous. "If you'd like that, that is..."

Harry nodded, giving a tiny smile.

"I'd like that." He murmured, softly. He'd like it more than anything in the world.

"Good." Clearing her throat, Ruth looked back up at the building. Everyone was congregated just inside, a few glances being thrown in their direction every so often. Harry watched them for a moment and then turned his eyes to watch Ruth, trying to spot any indication that she might be about to spook and shy away. None came, however. She just gave a steadying breath and turned back to him. "Ready?" she asked, softly.

Harry shook his head.

"Not really," he admitted, giving a sigh as he tightened his grip around her hand, "but it's only half an hour. I'll manage."

"We always do," Ruth replied, simply.

Raising his eyes to meet hers, Harry felt the weight of everything they were together – all the good and all of the bad. They had a lot of problems which needed sorting out, he thought, before they could start to move forwards. They both had insecurities and reasons to be cautious, but they were both very much in love and the possibility of what they could be was more important, right now, than the difficulties that they would face in getting there. They both wanted to try for something, and that was what counted. Whatever route they followed, Harry thought, however long it took, they were his priority now. Them, Wes, Catherine and Graham.

Taking a deep breath, he looked up towards Thames House. He could do half an hour, he told himself, bracing himself against the thought and the cold of the wind. He could do one last debrief as Head of Section D. He felt like shit. He ached and hurt. He had spent the day teetering from depressed, to angry, to stressed, to angry, to terrified, to joyful, to emotionally drained. He was more exhausted than he had ever been, but Ruth was with him. Ruth would be with him. And then, when it was over, they would go home. Together.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Ruth nodded.

Their hands remained wrapped in each other's, all the way to the door.

.


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30 – What Adam Said_

.

_January 1, 2012_

.

Ruth woke at just past seven in the morning, when the sun was only starting to lighten the eastern horizon. Around her, the bedroom was dark, the sheets across Harry's large oak bed rumpled and twisted around its two inhabitants. It took a moment for her to realise what it was that had woken her. Indeed, she only managed to pinpoint it when the mobile phone on the bed stand – Harry's, not hers – gave a repeat of its soft 'ping'. Careful not to disturb her companion, who was still deep in slumber, Ruth reached over and turned the phone on in her hand. A reminder was displayed on the screen, telling her that Wes was back at half past.

Turning the alarm off and placing the phone back on the side table, Ruth turned back over in bed. Next to her, Harry was still sound asleep, his face relaxed and forehead unlined. He still looked completely shattered.

They had both been so drained, when they had returned last night, that they had gone straight to bed. Or, rather, Harry had gone straight to bed. When they had finally stumbled through the door, at quarter to three, Ruth had told him to go upstairs while she made tea. But, by the time she had brought his cup upstairs, he had already been asleep, shoes kicked off but still fully clothed. Placing his tea on the side, Ruth had woken him gently and convinced him to shower the blood away and get into something more appropriate, before sleeping. He had sleepily acquiesced and, after loaning her some pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that had shrunk in the wash, they had both climbed back into bed and lay near to one another, sleepily exploring hands and faces. They had shared a few sleepy kisses, too, but hadn't ventured any further, both too tired and quite satisfied, for the moment, just to have one another safe and warm beside them.

They had come so close to losing one another, Ruth thought, watching Harry frown in his dreams. They had come so close to being torn apart forever. How would she have coped, she wondered, to be left alone? If that bomb had gone off, she doubted she would have slept by now. She would still be in a corner of a room somewhere, probably TRING, sobbing uncontrollably. But no, she countered, she wouldn't be – not really. She would have had Wes to think of. If Harry was gone, she would have had to figure out what would happen to Wes and that would have kept her sane. She would have been inconsolable, though. She could remember the feeling when the timer had reached one and there had been just silence on the line – that feeling of being torn into pieces from the inside out – and could not imagine what it was like to experience for more than five seconds. They had been so damned lucky, she thought, reaching over and brushing back a few ruffled waves of hair from Harry's forehead.

She still wasn't sure people like them deserved to be lucky. She wasn't sure if they were meant to have any of the things that she wished for them, in the future, but somehow all of that did not seem to matter anymore. She had given up on trying to be/have/feel what they were 'meant' to be/have/feel. From now on, she was going to do what made them happy.

Running her hand down the outside of his shoulder and onto the side of his chest, she felt his ribs rise and fall with each breath. He felt beautiful. He was beautiful. She wanted to slide herself in closer, wake him gently with kisses across his cheeks and mouth. She wanted to slip her hands down across his body and learn all the little things which she had denied them, over the years. They way his breaths felt, with their bellies pushed together. How much hair was scattered across his chest and belly. Whether or not his muscles would twitch against her, as he came. She wanted all of that but Harry looked so very peaceful and she could not bring herself to wake him – not for anything. So, steeling herself for the cold, she slipped from beneath the duvet and padded forth across the bedroom.

The hardwood was frigid underfoot. The heating had clicked on at just past half four in the morning but had turned off by six, (Harry's usual exit time, she supposed), and the cold had invaded since then. Gathering up her clothes from yesterday and selecting a jumper of Harry's, from a pile of clean washing on his chest of drawers – she figured he wouldn't mind so much and it was cold in the house – she wandered around until she found a bathroom where she took a very quick shower and changed back into her clothes from yesterday. Then, heading downstairs, she sought out the boiler room and turned on the heating again, before heading through to the kitchen and boiling up a pot of tea.

There was surprising variety in Harry's cupboards, when it came to food, but she eventually decided on toast and butter, which she ate whilst sitting in the front room, keeping an eye on the front drive. When Wes came back, she didn't want them to have to ring the doorbell and wake Harry up, upstairs. So, she waited. It wasn't long before he arrived. Quarter to eight had just struck, on the clock above the mantle, when a large blue people carrier pulled up outside the house and Wes and another boy jumped out, followed by a rather harassed looking woman who Ruth took to be the other boy's mother. Standing, she brushed the crumbs from herself, removed the oversized man's jumper, and walked to the front door where she disarmed the alarm it open, she greeted them as the two boys tore up the garden path, making aeroplane noises. Harry the beagle tore along at their heels, wagging happily.

"Ruth!" Wes exclaimed, sounding delighted as he spotted her – a relief to Ruth, who had been worrying whether he might be confused to find her here. "Why are you here?"

"Thought I'd come and see you for New Years'," she told him, leaning down to give him a short hug as he arrived at her side. Then, wedging the door open, she stepped outside and greeted the mother. "Hello, I'm Ruth," she held out her hand, praying that the woman across from her did not notice the lack of makeup or the fact that her hair had been scraped back into a ponytail to conceal its lack of brushing and the fact that it hadn't been washing since yesterday morning.

The woman across from her, thankfully, was far too exhausted from fielding the two eleven-year-old boys, and the three other children who were in the back of her people carrier to notice details like that. In fact, Ruth suspected it would take a thermobaric explosion to rouse her from her slightly dazed state.

"Oh, hello, I'm Kate," she blustered, shaking Ruth's hand and then rooting around in her pockets before remembering that was not what she was looking for. Reaching over her shoulder, she pulled off the rucksack that Wes had taken yesterday (was it only yesterday!) from Harry's porch and handed it over. "Here you go. I think we've got all of his things inside. Get off that fence, Neil!" she added, in a shout, at her son – without turning around. The two boys were at the bottom of the garden, saying their goodbyes. Neil through a narrow-eyed glare at his mother, but jumped off the stone fence anyways. "Sorry. He's a bit of a handful."

Ruth gave her a smile.

"Thank you for looking after him, especially last night."

"Not a problem," Kate waved her hand. "It's not like I had exciting plans anyway, what with the rest of them." She motioned towards the car, where her young daughter was bouncing up and down in the passenger seat and her twins – too young to be of discriminate sex – were wailing in the back seats.

Ruth privately wondered what on earth had possessed her to become lax with her use of birth control, but outwardly expressed only a smile. "Thanks all of the same," she told Kate. "What with a work emergency and the babysitter's accident-,"

"Is she okay?"

"Oh, fine, yes. Broken leg, but nothing that won't mend. Anyway," Ruth continued, "we would never have been able to get by without you so... thank you very much."

Kate shrugged.

"Anytime. You can return the favour some day."

Ruth winced inwardly, smiling outwardly.

"Anytime."

"Right. I'd better dash. We're on our way to the grandparents." Kate gathered her handbag, a small rubber duck toy that she seemed to be carrying and then, dropping her keys several times, made her way back down the garden path, calling on the boy Neil as she went. "Happy New Year, Ruth," she called back to Ruth at the top of the path. "And you, Wes," she added, patting the boy on the head with the hand that was holding the rubber duck.

Both of them wished her a Happy New Year back then watched as she manhandled her son into the back of the car, forced her daughter to sit back down and stop sticking her head out of the sunroof, wiped something off of the twins' cheeks, and then got back in the driver's seat and trundled off down the road. As she disappeared around the corner, Wes stopped waving and skipped back up the path, coming to a halt just in front of Ruth. Harry the beagle tagged along behind him.

"Shall we go inside?" Ruth asked, suddenly nervous of being left on her own with the boy. She had known him well when he was younger, when she had used to babysit on occasion for Adam and she had got on with him fine at the Christmas party, but being his sole custodian for a few hours, until Harry woke, was a slightly daunting prospect. He was older, now. He wouldn't just want to draw pictures and play games. "Harry's still asleep, but I could make you breakfast."

"I ate at Neil's house," he told her, following her back inside. "They had toast and eggs and bacon."

"Oh," Ruth felt slightly ashamed of her lack of bacon. "You enjoyed yourself, then?" she asked, hoping to make conversation. "Kate seems nice."

"She's a bit batty, to be honest," Wes told her, as they trod through to the kitchen and Ruth placed his bag near the table. "She is always running around and shouting," the young boy said, flopping down into one of the stools at the kitchen counter, "and she smells of baby sick."

Ruth felt a point being placed in her side of the tally board. She might not have made him bacon, but at least she didn't smell of baby sick.

"Well, would you like anything else?"

"Can I have a coffee?" Wes asked, hopefully.

The way he raised his eyebrows made him look so much like Adam that Ruth's heart melted a bit and a little of her nerves floated away. This was Adam and Fiona Carter's son, sitting across from her. It didn't matter if things were a little awkward. They were family. Things would crinkle out, like Adam used to say, in time.

"Do you usually have coffee?" Ruth asked him.

Wes hesitated for a moment, then said, "...yes."

Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, no," Wes admitted, "but I'd like to try some."

"How about I make you hot chocolate and I make coffee for me and you can try some of mine," she suggested.

This arrangement seemed acceptable to Wes, who slipped off of his bar stool and over to turn on the telly while Ruth set to work trying to find things in Harry's stupidly arranged kitchen. After finally unearthing the coffee at the topmost corner of the cupboard above the cooker, she put on the machine and listened to the calming noise of it drizzling through while she made Wes's hot chocolate. In the background, Wes watched cartoons, at the table, and Harry the beagle snuffled around, searching for any crumbs which may have been dropped during his absence.

Once the drinks were made, Ruth sat down across from the boy and let him try some of the coffee – which he immediately repudiated and told her tasted of wet dogs. She joked that he probably shouldn't be licking wet dogs and he laughed and things became easier after that. They talked about his school and his friends and rugby. Then they talked about Neil and Kate and their mad family some more and Wes expressed delight that he didn't have so many siblings and a little sadness that he didn't have any at all. Then they talked about Harry the beagle and how he had eaten ten mince pies and sicked them up again on Kate's shoes (Ruth made a note to call the woman and offer to replace them) and then the conversation moved on to the inevitable subject of why Ruth was here, at such an early hour of the morning.

"Did you sleep here?" Wes asked, fixing her with a suspicious stare.

Ruth felt her cheeks flush very slightly but managed to contain herself, sipping her coffee genteelly.

"Yes," she answered, sensing that a non-sensationalist but straight forwards approach might be best, for the lot of them. Wes liked to get a rise out of people so the best thing to do was to act as calm as possible.

"Did you sleep in the spare room?" Wes asked, pressing further.

"No."

"Did you sleep in Harry's bed?"

"Yes."

"With Harry?"

"Yes, Wes."

"So are you going to be his girlfriend, then?"

There was a bit of a pause, where Ruth weighed up the benefits of answering that question. Then, deciding to hedge her bets, she went for the truth. "I don't know yet," she told the young boy, honestly. "We'll have to see. These things take time."

"Harry _wants_ you to be his girlfriend," Wes informed her, helpfully.

A tiny smile tugged at Ruth's lips.

"Yes, well, I'd like to be his girlfriend too," she told him, "but we'll have to talk about it. It's a big decision."

There was a pause, while Wes thought this through, then he nodded and announced to her, "People are like swans."

Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"Pardon?"

"My dad said that swans find another swan to hang out with," Wes elaborated, "then they glide around together for the rest of their lives."

How very Adam.

Ruth's throat tightened as she thought of her colleague, how soft his voice would have been when he had told Wes that story. He had been a good person, she thought, sadly. A good father and a good man. It had been cruel that the world had taken him away from his child like that. Wes should never have had to grow up without his parents. Still, at least he had the memory of the man Adam had been. And at least he had people who could remember Adam with him. Of all the people in the world, besides Fiona, Harry had probably known Adam best. They had worked closely for a long time.

"I suppose we are a bit like swans," Ruth agreed, after a pause, setting her coffee down on the table and watching the little blonde boy. Wes was watching her back with an air of curiosity. "At least, some of us are, anyway."

"My mum and dad were like swans," Wes pushed. "So are you and Harry."

"We don't know that yet," Ruth reminded him. "We'll have to see what happens."

Across the table, however, Wes just shrugged.

"You're Harry's swan," he stated, very surely.

Ruth swallowed and looked down.

She knew that she was Harry's swan. He was conflicted on so many levels, about so many things, but for her his feelings had never wavered. Since he had made effort to pursue her, Ruth had never doubted that he loved her with all of his heart. He might be the only one in her life, but she _was_ his life. The difference came down to one thing. If he had died and she had been left, she would have been distraught. She would have cried and hurt more than she could imagine. She would have been in agony for weeks, months, years, but she would have eventually moved on with her life. She would have survived on a personal level, because she was good at making friends. She was naturally good at seeking companionship in others and at letting the world in. Harry, however, was not. If she were to die, it would destroy him.

The inherent responsibility of that was probably what scared Ruth the most, about pursuing a relationship with him. (That, the secrets and the weight of the past). Being the single most important person in another person's world was terrifying. What if she could not live up to his expectations? What if she could not fulfil him, or make him happy in all the ways she wanted to? What if she wasn't enough, after all of that longing, after all of those years? What if, once the unattainable was attainable, Harry realised she was just a silly, slightly naive girl with flaws and imperfections like everybody else.

She was so scared of stepping down off the pedestal Harry had placed her on and inhabiting a normal, human position in his life. She was scared that he would never trust her enough to let her in and they would fall apart. She was terrified of laying herself down to him, again, and fighting through all of their insecurities and problems. But she did want to. She wanted to be part of his life. She wanted to try and do this properly...

"He was quite upset, you know, when you had your row at Christmas," Wes told her, setting his little jaw across the table.

Ruth looked up, becoming dimly aware that she was getting a talking to.

"I know," she told him, shamefacedly. "But we'll talk about it and work it out."

"You shouldn't fight. It's much better when you are friends," Wes informed her.

"I agree."

"Harry is much less grumpy."

"I probably am, too. We will try and not shout at each other again," she assured the little boy, with every ounce of sincerity she could muster. "Nobody can be sure of how these things will turn out, Wes, but I promise that we'll try our best. I don't want to make Harry sad anymore," she finished. "And I know he would never want to make me sad, either."

Across the table, Wes nodded, then his serious expression broke and he smiled – the problem clearly solved, in his little world.

"Good," he exclaimed, setting his finished mug of hot chocolate down, on the table. "Can I go watch TV on the big screen?"

Ruth smiled slightly and nodded.

"Just keep the volume down," she added, as an afterthought, "and close the door. Harry's still asleep."

"Okay," Wes called, as he thundered out the room.

Wondering why it was necessary for all young boys to take the world at a sprint, Ruth walked over to the sink and cleaned out her and Wes's mugs.

She stood there, by the sink on front of the window, for a long time, just thinking things through. Thinking her and Harry through. Thinking work through. Thinking of what had happened last night – of the bomb and Harry's near escape and everything that had happened between and after those points. She thought of Wes and Harry the beagle and the little family they could have, if they tried very hard and sacrificed quite a lot of what they were, now. She tallied up all of the pros and cons and weighed up all of her options. Then, she considered the answers she had come to, alongside the fact that she loved Harry with every fibre of her being and would rather be confused and conflicted with him than confused and conflicted without him. She thought about what Adam had said, to Wes, about the swans. And her path seemed suddenly much clearer.

Harry was here. She was here. They had the opportunity to try and make something of themselves. They might well fail, but both wanted to try. And she didn't ever want to walk away again. She was never, ever going to walk away again.

Setting the two clean mugs down, she turned from the sink and made her way quietly back upstairs.

.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N – Well, I'm a day late at posting, due to a long story involving a missing document and a broken down car, but I have hopefully made up for it with length and enthusiasm. (Wink). Just a quick warning, it does get pretty M-rated about two-thirds of the way through, so any youngsters in the audience should probably avert their eyes for that last bit. The rest of you, and I say this in the least perverted way possible, please enjoy. -Silver. _

_Chapter 31 – Not the end of the world_

_._

_January 1, 2012_

.

Harry woke to the soft pressure of fingertips against his cheek. Soft, warm fingertips, brushing up and then back into his hair. His first instinct was to startle and pull away, not used to anyone being near him during sleep, but something in the tenderness with which he was being touched reigned in the impulse. It was okay. He was safe here.

Stretching, slightly, he realised his body felt surprisingly good – a little stiff in the shoulder and the side, a little aching in his bad knee, but better than he had felt waking up in a long time. His body was free from tension. He had not been jerked back to reality by the sound of his alarm, or an emergency phone call, that was for sure. If he had been, his heart would have been thundering at a couple hundred beats a minute. This morning, his heart was slow and steady. His breaths were deep and even, too, only halfway out of sleep.

Slowly, his eyes opened. The world around him was half in shadow. His dark curtains were still drawn across the long windows of his bedroom. The beige walls were shrouded in shadow. Apart from the bed in the middle of the room and his shoes on the carpet between the bed and the window, the rest of the floor was spotless. All seemed normal. His body was warm in the bed. The duvet and blankets thrown over him last night were tangled around his body now, arranged to stop any hint of cold air from sneaking in and disturbing his slumber. Not that the air was so very cold. The heating must have been on, he thought dimly. It must still be early. But then why the light outside the windows. It was deep winter. There should be no light.

But he was so tired to think much on it. His eyelids were so heavy and so he let them slide shut. He lay like that for a few long seconds, falling closer and closer to sleep again, then he felt movement at his head again and remembered the presence of another person in the room. Blinking his eyes open, he searched around himself and settled on a shadowy figure sitting on the door side of the bed, next to him. Familiarity warmed him through and he knew, without quite thinking on it, that his companion was welcome here.

Breathing in, he found her scent in the air. Ruth, amongst the scents of his bedroom – amongst his cologne, his clothes, his bed, his sheets and him. Ruth's soft, very faintly perfumed scent. Her skin. The crème she used upon it. Her shampoo, only very faint now, but still there. Drinking her in, Harry felt his body stretch, felt blood rushing to his skin, making him infinitesimally less comfortable. As he began to slowly come back around to reality, he wondered whether the Ruth he was seeing, smelling, seeing hazily was real or fantasy. Every ounce of him was telling him this was fantasy – that this was just like every other morning he had woken in aching frustration and run his own hands over his body, losing himself in the imagination of her. But if this was a fantasy, he asked himself, why was it not fragmented? Why was it so wonderfully detailed? He could never have imagined, for instance, the feel of his shadow-Ruth's lips as she leant over and pressed a kiss against his forehead. He could never have imagined the heat off of her cheek as it brushed his chin, or the soft wetness her lips left behind them.

Fantasy or real? He needed to know.

Turning his head, he wrenched his eyelids open fully, blinking to clear the haze from his vision. Real, he thought, as he found her, sitting with her legs crossed on the empty side of the bed. This was Ruth. Real Ruth, here, in his bed, with him.

His heart stammered faster, his mind suddenly aware that he was on his back and semi-aroused beneath the sheets wrapped around him, that there was very little, really, between their respective bodies. He felt suddenly vulnerable and simultaneously invigorated. Here was Ruth, beside him, in his bed, and she was smiling – resplendent in the light. Morning streaming through the cracks in the curtains played over her hair and caught the lines of her face, making her appear even younger than her forty-odd years. She was beautiful. Beautiful and here, and real, and in his bed, with him.

Harry breathed out, slowly, feeling her set her palm to rest down on his chest, feeling her fingertips spreading out across him.

"Hello," he murmured, his voice deep and slightly rough from sleep.

"Hello," she tried a smile, looking slightly nervous.

It was that morning-after feeling, Harry thought, that strange bit once both parties were awake but neither was sure how far they could push their newfound intimacy. Was she allowed to touch him like this? Was he allowed to respond? It was odd. He thought it only happened after sex. Then again, he countered, if sex was just a yardstick for emotional involvement then he and Ruth had been shagging each other for years. More than half a decade, in fact, just without the physical release. This was their morning-after. And he didn't want her to feel awkward in it. Reaching one hand up, he traced along the outside of her forearm, following the soft line of her down to his chest and then back up again. She was beautiful. Warm, soft, but fully clothed, he noted. Dressed as if she intended on going somewhere.

A flicker of worry fluttered through him.

"Are you leaving?" he asked, trying and failing to sound as if the thought didn't devastate him.

Ruth looked surprised, for a moment, then confused, then clearly realised why he had asked. Glancing down at herself, she let out a quick little exhale of laughter. "Oh, no. I was just up to let Wes in."

Harry groaned.

"Damn, I completely forgot. I meant to be up..." he blinked a couple more times, trying to clear his sleepy mind. "Did he make it back okay?"

Ruth nodded, watching him fondly. "He's fine – just popped out with next door's boys, to the park down the road. They're having a Rugger tournament and then brunch. I'm promised he will be back by one."

Harry felt a momentary stab of unease. Wes, out in the world, by himself. But no, he countered, he was not by himself. He was with the next door neighbour, who had passed all of his security vetting and seemed to be a completely nice and responsible member of society with two young boys of his own. They had talked several times. Harry had identified him as a future ally in emergency childcare situations. Ruth had made the right choice in letting Wes go and play with them. And it did mean that they were alone in the house, his libido chipped in, helpfully, from the side.

Harry quelled its input, with a clear of his throat.

"I'm sorry you had to get up," he told Ruth, softly. "I meant to do it myself. I thought I set an alarm."

"You did," she admitted, "but you slept straight through. I really don't mind, though," she told him, before he had the chance to interrupt and apologise again. "It was nice to have a chance to chat to Wes. Besides, I thought you deserved a lie-in, after last night."

She was probably right, thought Harry, as the events of the previous night began to filter back through in horrific detail; the chase after the three Syrians, their capture and the business with the Americans; the chase after Sanderson; his and his late bodyguard's attack on the building; his capture; the bomb; his phone conversation with Ruth and the terror he had felt; then the bomb not going off and sweet relief.

The emotional turmoil of the night was such that he only dimly remembered events post-midnight – his return to Thames House, his discussion with the JIC and then his journey back here, with Ruth. He could barely remember falling into bed at all, but there were brief snapshots of the night that came to mind, when he concentrated hard enough.

He had woken several times, from nightmares, to find her sleeping calmly beside him, her soft body spooned back against his. She never woke, he remembered, just (seemingly subconsciously) pressed herself closer to him. Harry could remember how grateful he was not to have found himself alone, in the dark. He could remember burying his face into the back of her neck and breathing in the soft scent of her, letting the slow beating of her heart lull him back off to sleep. It had been wonderful. It had been the ultimate form of comfort seeking. They had simply cuddled into one another for hours – a closeness that they had not come even close to, in the past.

They should have woken up that way too, he thought, feeling slightly put out. Ruth should have had a lie-in and woken up peacefully. He should have woken up to the alarm, brought Wes in and situated him on front of the telly, or something, and then crawled back into bed beside her. Still, this way they had ended up alone in the house, his libido pointed out, again.

Harry banished the thought, again.

"What time is it?" he asked Ruth.

"Just gone eleven."

Harry felt a rush of surprise. Eleven o' clock in the morning. He hadn't slept until eleven for more years than he could remember. On working days, he got in between eight and nine and was generally asleep by eleven at night. He would sleep through until half five and then rise, shower, dress and head off back into work. He was programmed to sleep for six hours at the very most. Last night, they had got in at quarter to three, which meant that he had slept for almost nine hours.

"You were exhausted," Ruth told him, with a little smile.

"I must have been..."

Feeling suddenly guilty for the indulgence, Harry made to sit up in bed, with every intention to rise. Pressing softly back on the chest, however, Ruth indicated that she would prefer he remained where he was. "Don't get up," she told him, softly.

Lifting her hand from him, she inched away from over the duvet. Harry's heart sank, but only until he realised she was orientating herself to lie down opposite. Then, joy rushed through him. Ruth, lying in bed, with him. His body whined with need but he forced it to the side. He was just so glad that she had stayed. He didn't need more, he told himself, ignoring the slight rise in his blood pressure again and the way his pyjama bottoms were feeling a bit more restricted than they had done, moments before.

Across the bed, Ruth pulled back the duvet and slipped underneath, wriggling around to get herself comfortable. She rearranged her clothes and stretched out her legs, allowing cold air to rush beneath the duvet where it was parted from the sheets and causing Harry to shiver. Quickly, she apologised, but he brushed it off equally as quickly. He didn't mind at all. How could he mind, after all? They were finally in bed together. Properly. Well, almost properly.

Once they had both settled and the moment had matured in itself, Ruth raised her chin above the duvet and settled her cheek into the pillow, watching him. She had the air of someone who wanted to talk about something and Harry felt a brief flutter of anxiety. Was this _the_ talk, the inevitable one they had to have? Last night had been glorious abandon. They had both pushed aside all of their issues and insecurities to celebrate him being alive. Now, however, it was morning. Now, they had to face reality.

The thought terrified him, slightly.

Rolling fully onto his side to regard her better, Harry murmured quietly, "We need to talk, don't we?"

Ruth gave a little half-smile.

"Mm. Probably," she admitted. Probably was an understatement, thought Harry, but said nothing. He was waiting for her to make the first move. She had a composed look about her, as if she had spent the best part of the morning gearing up to this. "Before we do, I should tell you that I talked to Calum about an hour ago, just to check up on things. He told me that Erin's operation went successfully. She got out of surgery about four hours ago and the doctors say she will make a full recovery."

Harry felt a rush of relief for his new Section Chief. They didn't know each other so very well, but her brusque manner had grown on him, these past few weeks – even though she still had a long way to go before she was Ros Myers. He liked her. He was glad she was okay.

"Good," he told Ruth. "What's the prognosis?"

"A week on bedrest and then six months behind a desk. It will drive her mad, but she'll be good as new in no time. Dimitri's with her and Rosie, now, in hospital. I thought we could maybe pop by later this afternoon and see them."

"Sounds like a good idea," Harry agreed.

A few beats passed, in silence.

Then,

"Calum also told me that you handed in your resignation, last night, during your meeting with the Home Secretary."

Harry watched her carefully, trying to spot any sign that she was reprimanding him, for not telling her first. After a moment or so, he decided she wasn't. There was a mildly curious look in her eyes, but not an accusatory one. And so, taking a deep breath, he tried to explain.

"It was just an official notice," he told her. "I have to formally resign on paper, tomorrow, but the ball is rolling. Technically, Calum shouldn't have said anything about it..."

Ruth continued to watch, her mouth still but eyes saying a thousand things. Regret, Harry was pleased to see, was not amongst them. Pleasure was, but it was accompanied by a heavy dose of caution. She was not sure about this sudden change in tactic, he realised. Perhaps she, like the Home Secretary and the DG, thought it was an emotional response to what had happened last night. Well he would have to convince her with the same argument he had used on them, Harry told himself. First, however, he needed to fully explain the situation. Taking a deep breath, he launched on.

"The deal is, I will work out the time until my trial on the sixth of January, at which point they will advise that I remain in office with no criminal charges. I will then ask to retire with full pension and benefits and nobody will be left with egg on their face over the whole fiasco."

Ruth's lips parted, slightly.

"They're letting you go without charges?" she asked, in what sounded like disbelief.

Harry nodded, his cheek scraping against the pillow cover.

"In response to my efforts last night and to my agreement to participate in an ongoing search for Price, on an external consultation basis. It's a win-win situation," he added. "They get to avoid a messy criminal trial, nobody is to be upset by my being allowed to stay, I get to nominate my replacement and I even get to keep the knighthood – just in case that was a deal breaker," he told her, in just a hint of a tease.

Ruth's eyes flashed briefly, but she contained her smile. Harry saw her concentrate hard and swallow, before moving on.

"And you're sure about this?" she pressed, gently. "You're sure you want to leave?"

Harry knew why she was surprised. For so long, he had clung to his position through scandals and attempted blackmail. He had survived shootings and attempted murder, arrests, conspiracies, treasons, trials and accusations – both false and true. He had clung to being Harry Pearce Head of Section D, because it had been his lifeline. It had been his cause, his life, his priority. Now, it wasn't.

"I'm tired," he told her, in simple explanation. "It's what Malcolm said to me, you know, that day he came to me and handed in his resignation. He told me he was dog-tired – just done." He gave a little shrug. "I didn't understand at the time, not fully, but I do now. For the first time in fifteen years, Ruth, I just don't want to be there."

"What happened last night, did it..." Ruth paused, searching for a word, "...did it _bring you_ to this decision?"

Harry sighed.

"Last night added to something I have been considering ever since I came back," he told her, feeling a rush of nerves at what he was about to say. He was not good at sharing emotions. He never had been. But this was Ruth, he told himself. He trusted Ruth. "After Albany," he pushed on, "while I was on leave, I felt as if there were something missing in my life. I assumed it was just work but when I went back, I still felt this gaping hole. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but I just don't want to fight any more. I don't believe in what we do any less. I don't feel dissatisfied with my job, or doubt my capacity to do it, but I just don't feel the need to be there anymore. I feel as if it's someone else's turn to sit behind my desk."

Ruth watched him for a long moment then her hand snaked out from beneath the duvet and reached across towards his.

Tentatively, Harry took it and let their fingers slide together. Fitting together. Perfectly.

"I have thought about it," he answered her unasked question. "I have thought about it a great deal these last few weeks, Ruth, tonight just solidified what I had already half-decided. I'm not jumping into this," he assured her. "I don't know exactly why, but now feels right."

She watched him for another ten seconds, eyes very serious, then she nodded slowly and squeezed his hand.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "As sure as I will ever be."

A pause. Then she nodded.

"Okay." Harry felt relief flood through him. Warm relief. Ruth was still here, still holding his hand. More than that, in fact, she was raising it to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the side of it. "I'm glad you have made a decision you are happy with," she told him, calmly. "I know you will have thought it through."

She kissed him again and they lay that way for a few moments, him brushing his fingertips against her cheek, her with her eyes closed. It was bliss, at least for Harry. A thousand questions and unsaid things still hung in the air but it was nice, for the moment, just to put them aside and revel in each other's company. It was an acclimatisation period, he supposed, before the conversation that they were inevitably going to have; the discussion of all that had come before. He supposed, really, he should be the one to start them rolling, on that front. So often it was him giving offence, moving in ways she perceived to be incorrectly. He should start the ball rolling on discussing those matters. Apologies and suchlike.

Clearing his throat, he looked over at her, feeling a rush of fondness as he found her already watching him back. Prepared.

"Do you want to talk about what happened over Christmas?" he asked her, softly.

Her eyes said no, but she nodded anyway.

She needed to do this. They needed to do this.

Still, there was a long pause before either of them said anything.

"You know," Ruth eventually started, her voice much quieter than before, "I sat downstairs preparing what to say to you about this but it's much harder now that I'm actually here." Harry held his silence because he knew that was exactly what he would need, in her situation. Silence, space to breath, space to think. Eventually, his companion cleared her throat and continued. "I think what you said last night is true," she told him slowly. "We both know what each other would like to say, about what happened, in the past. I think you know that I wish I had been braver, all those years ago, and that I had never had to leave. I think you know that I loved George, in a way, and that I was heartbroken that what happened to the lot of us happened the way it did. I think you know that I forgave you for that a long time ago, however. I think you realise that what is holding us apart, now, is not what happened in my past, or in yours, but how we have conditioned ourselves to act around one another."

Harry nodded. He agreed.

"I do feel, however, that I should apologise for how I treated you this week," Ruth continued. "However angry I was, however damaged my pride, I shouldn't have shouted or walked away and refused to talk to you. It was juvenile and cruel, and I'm sorry for that. It was just very hard to see clearly, at the time."

Harry did not immediately reply. He was a little taken aback by the succinctness of her reply. She really had thought about this, he thought. She really had sat downstairs and prepared what she wanted to say to him. And her honesty both pleased and worried him. Pleased because it was good to know she was now looking at the situation from an unbiased, adult perspective (rather than as the angry, injured party). Worried, because it meant that he was going to have to be equally as honest and explanatory. And he was not sure he even knew, yet, exactly what had been going on in his head on Christmas.

It took a good minute or so before he could fashion a response. Ruth did not press him, however. She just lay and played his fingers over in her own, giving him space to breathe. To think.

"I understand why you reacted in that way," Harry eventually began. "My timing was completely atrocious and what I said was..."

"Hurtful," Ruth filled in for him, her eyes meeting his with a momentary flash of reproach.

"Yes," Harry admitted, feeling a sting of shame. It had been hurtful. He had been a drunken fool, to be perfectly honest, but that was not what she wanted to discuss. He could tell. "I was an idiot," he summed up, thinking of how he had refused to trust her judgement, how he had pulled back because of his own insecurities and then blamed it on her. "I'm not sure what I was thinking. I didn't mean for you to think that I didn't want to get closer to you. Trust me, I truly did want that. I just..." he exhaled, heavily. "I just wanted both of us to be sure." And I was terrified, he added to himself. Drunk and nervous and terrified of doing something wrong – of losing her. It had not been an entirely unjustified fear.

Ruth watched him very carefully for a moment, then gave a small sigh.

"I know you never meant to hurt me, Harry," she told him, with a slightly restrained air. "And I know that I haven't made it easy for you." She swallowed and looked away. "I am sorry for that as well."

Time stretched on for a while, after that. The light of the day outside gently spilling in across his bed, its single shaft – from where the curtains had parted during the night – crawling over Ruth's face and on, across the rumpled duvet cover between them. As it traversed the folds and crevices, it took on a snakelike character, winding its way down to Harry's side. They were connected, he thought dimly, watching it. They were connected by light and darkness and a thousand and one secrets. They had been through so very much together, he thought with a sigh. Nothing they did not was going to be easy. But he wanted to try.

Extending his fingers from their combined grasp, Harry reached one up and brushed it against his beautiful companion's lip, prompting her to kiss it. The one kiss was followed by another and her lifting his hand to her face, eyes closed as she placed his palm against her – drinking in the sensation as he had drunk her in while she slept, last night.

"I meant what I said last night," she murmured, in the two-minute silence they had built around them. The tone in her voice had changed, somehow, as if maybe they were done with the emotionally charged part of the conversation and onto the reconciliation bit. She looked calmer than before – more collected and somehow resolved. "I do love you," she told Harry, causing his heart to thrum faster in his chest. "I'm sorry if that got lost in all of the anger."

They lay together in silence for a few seconds. The band of light that connected them had drifted infinitesimally further down their bodies. Soft, warm light. Ruth opened and closed her fingers and let him run his in-between. She raised their hands to her face and watched them closely, spotting similarities perhaps, in their skin. They might be different, in little ways, thought Harry, but fundamentally they were they same. They were both human. They were male and female, Harry and Ruth, dark and light, and they were meant to fit together. Closing his fingers around the back of her hand, he lowered them back to the bed and caught her eye across the top of them.

"I meant what I said last night, too," he told her, sincerely. "And I will try not to muck it up this time."

She turned her head against her pillows, allowing herself to more comfortably observe him, across the way. Her eyes were very blue, very deep, very contemplative. Harry got the impression that she knew, how he still had no idea how he had mucked it up the first time. He got the impression that she knew everything, that she could see right through him, in that moment. The moment passed, however, and she returned her attentions to squeezing her fingers around his.

"You _do_ have a terrible knack for mucking things up," she commented.

"Its genetic," Harry explained, grasping the opportunity to lighten the situation. "My dad was a great mucker up of things, as was his father before him, and it goes right back to my great-great-great grandfather, who received a vast inheritance but sunk it all on a sheep farm."

Ruth's eyes lifted to his and, for a moment, she managed to keep a straight face. Then the twitch of Harry's lips caused front to crumble. Looking away, she gave a tiny snort of a laugh which, caused Harry to laugh which, in turn, broke the dark tension in the room completely. Gently severing the contact of their hands, Ruth folded hers across her belly and lay back against her pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

They lay in silence, that way, as the sounds of the morning carried on outside. On the street, a car trundled by outside and parked. They listened as children shouted and tumbled out of it – too young to be next door, returning with Wes from the park – and scrambled off down the road. They listened as adult voices sounded, then a distant knock and more adult voices announced the family's arrival at their destination. _Happy New Year, Happy New Year_, rang out through the cold January air. He had almost not seen the New Year, Harry thought, lying back against his pillows. By what miracle was he allowed to be here? What were the chances?

Curiosity piqued, he turned his head and asked Ruth.

"Two hundred and twenty three, to one," she answered, without so much as pausing to think, still looking up at the ceiling. "Give or take five percent depending on the humidity."

"You are very good at what you do," Harry murmured, after a moment's adoration. "I don't tell you nearly enough."

"I looked it up last night, actually, but thank you," Ruth replied, then thoughtfully added, "You are very good at your job too. I suppose it is what makes us so very bad at this."

Harry frowned. "Explain."

Ruth turned her head back towards him, eyes slightly challenging.

"We are so used to seeing each other being good at things that we forget what failings we do have. We forget what we have sacrificed, to get here," she explained. Harry frowned, so she continued. "Okay... When was the last time you went out socially, with someone who was not from work?" she asked. "And when I say socially I mean a date or lunch, not drinks and a casual fling."

Thinking she might have a slightly inflated perception of his past sexual escapades, Harry lay back and thought about it. The last date he had been on was with a woman named Jennifer, who he had met through some ridiculous Home Office function. She had been working as a liaison for Six and they had talked about extraordinary rendition and the Americans for nearly an hour straight before he had asked her to come home with him. She had refused and asked him to dinner the following night. He had gone. They had got along splendidly but it had never come to anything. Too busy, the both of them. She had gone to Washington the year after. That was the year after Juliet had left him, Harry thought, tracing back over events in his head. Which was six months after he had been divorced to Jane officially. Making it...

"Twelve years," he mouthed, quietly, not quite able to believe it himself. Twelve years. Bloody hell.

Ruth nodded, looking vindicated but also a tiny bit pitying.

"There you go," she stated softly. "You don't do this very often – I don't do this very often. We aren't used to this. I shouldn't have expected us to be."

Still, Harry thought, she should have been able to expect him to act like a vaguely decent human being. She should have been able to expect, for example, him not to do something like telling her that them staying the night together was 'stupid', or 'trite'. Drunk or not, his brain should have filtered that particular gem out.

They lay in silence for another half minute, or so, then Ruth sighed heavily and continued.

"I suppose," she mused thoughtfully, "apart from what you said and how embarrassed I was, the main reason for my anger was that you walked away. We had the argument and then you just left. You did not try to fix anything."

Harry frowned.

"You told me to go."

"Not really."

"Okay," he conceded, "but you did heavily imply that I was no longer welcome in your company. I remember it fairly clearly."

"Yes, but I _wanted_ you to stay."

Indignation stirred in Harry's belly. She said she wanted him to go but really wanted him to stay... How was he supposed to have been able to tell? Did she think he had some sort of secret telepathic power that he had been hiding, all of these years? Did she think she had been clear, when she had shouted at him and told him to sleep on the couch? Was she stark raving mad? Was he? Was that the reason they had spent the last five years circling each other dizzily? It sort of made sense, if they were...

"Perhaps I should have stayed and talked," Harry granted her, diplomatically. "But you could have made it a bit clearer, if you had wanted me to stay."

"You have no idea how frustrating it is, dealing with you," Ruth retorted, a little of the frustration coming back to her eyes, now, as she talked about it. "You do this... this completely 'Harry' thing where you make your mind up, about something, and nobody can convince you otherwise. You're so brilliant at so many things," she sighed. "You are a first-rate spook and an excellent boss but, in your personal life, you can sometimes be incredibly dense." She bit her lip, then muttered a quick apology, then plunged forth again. "I just wish you would have listened to me and trusted my judgement. But you can be so bloody..." She trailed off and didn't continue, just shook her head, staring back up at the ceiling.

The silence held for a few seconds.

Curiosity eventually getting the better of him, Harry lifted his head off his pillow.

"So bloody what?" he asked.

Ruth eyed him from beneath her dark lashes. Harry got the feeling, again, that she could see straight through him. He got the feeling that she was thinking very deeply on something and he was possibly about to be conversationally out-manoeuvred. He also got the feeling she might like to say a great number of things, in answer to his question, but was restraining herself to the one. "Stubborn," she said, eventually. "You can be so bloody stubborn."

Harry's eyebrows shot up.

"Pardon?" he asked, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

"Stubborn," Ruth repeated. "Obstinate, unmovable... It's a fairly well-known word, Harry."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"You think _I'm_ stubborn?" he asked again, indignation rising. Deep down, he probably knew she was picking a fight but he couldn't stop himself.

"Yes."

"Woman," Harry said, propping himself up on one arm, "Do the words 'pot', 'kettle' and 'black' come to mind at all? You are more stubborn than a pack of bloody mules! Every time we get anywhere close to making progress, you put your foot down, or wriggle away, or simply close your eyes and pretend none of it is happening. You refuse to let me in. Then, you let me in and push me away again. You show some interest and then, the next day, you act as if I'm completely out of line simply for _talking_ to you. It's like courting someone with a split personality disorder. I haven't even the slightest clue where I stand, with you. You are, undoubtedly, the single most infuriating individual that I have ever had the good fortune to meet!"

There was a short silence, wherein Ruth looked slightly taken aback by the enthusiasm of his reply, then a glimmer of amusement shone in her eyes and she, too, propped herself up on one elbow. The movement brought them closer together, drawing their gazes almost level. Staring across, Harry noted that her blue was almost iridescent when side-lit from the sun. Iridescent and marked out by two enormous, disc-like, dilated pupils. They were beautiful and, coupled with the slight parting of her lips, he found the effect were strangely arousing.

"Am I really?" she asked, with a hint of the playful about her tone.

"Yes," Harry answered, firmly. In the back of his mind, he knew she was teasing him, but he could not help himself. He was frustrated. She pushed him away, she pulled him closer. She held him at arms' length for five years and then she called _him_ stubborn! "I have no idea what is going on in your head. You are confusing and contradictory and pointlessly complex."

Harry could see her breaths hitching in the notch between her collarbones, could see the fast pulse of her heart, in her neck. His own heartbeat was fast becoming unbearable, thundering in the juncture of his neck and down, in his groin. They were only inches away and Ruth was startlingly beautiful when she was fired up. Her eyes sparkled, their irises a mixture of shimmering greys and brilliant blue. Her cheeks flushed, their skin pink along the crest. She was beautiful. She was beautiful and glorious, strong and indignant.

She was stunning and he was aching.

"You are impossible," he murmured, torn between love, lust, want and indignation – all of said emotions somehow enhancing each other within him until his chest ached with the intensity of it all. He could barely breathe. He could barely think. "You are utterly impossible."

"So why bother with me, then?" Ruth asked, quietly. "If I'm impossible and infuriating and complain about you... why bother?"

Why bother, indeed. Harry had been asking himself that question for years. Why bother with Ruth, of all the people in his life, of all the women he had ever met and worked with? At first, he had no idea. She was not the most classically beautiful woman in his periphery. She was not his type. She was clever enough to intimidate him slightly and she was his subordinate at work, which made things instantly more difficult. She had not been easy for him or led him on, in any way. Conversely, however, she had not ever made herself particularly unavailable – not before he fell in love with her, in any case. Why did he bother with her, then? What had started all of this?

Some innocuous moment in his past, Harry thought. There had been some innocuous moment where he had looked beyond her slightly ditsy, pretty exterior and seen her heart and, ever since that moment, he had been trapped by her, ensnared by her startling blue eyes and her unbreakable Ruth-ness. He remained, to this day, in awe of her resilience to all that they had faced; the code she clung to through the erosion of time, the beliefs she held though others' derision. He remained in awe of her beauty and her intelligence, of her kindness and the way she gave of herself, open-heartedly. He remained in awe of the fact that she never judged – no matter the circumstance. What was there not to be bothered with, after all? She was brilliant at her job and the most loyal of friends. She made mistakes, she was proud and sometimes infuriatingly naive, but she was _Ruth_.

"I love you," he eventually grumbled. "That's why... that will always be why."

Ruth's eyes sparked with delight.

"Always?"

"Yes... and I'm not stubborn," he added, stubbornly.

There was a silence, for a moment, then Ruth reached her hand across and rubbed her thumb gently down his cheek. As Harry chanced a glance back over at her, her gaze had softened. The playful antagonism was still there, but it was veiled with soft fondness, a gentle loved that warmed her eyes and warmed him all the way through.

"Thank you for putting up with me," she murmured, stroking his cheek. "I'm sorry about ranting at you. I just promised myself I would say everything and I got a little carried away..." she gave him a little smile. "I didn't mean to imply that your cautions were unwarranted. I know full well what I've done to you, over the years."

"Actually, you have no idea," Harry told her, leaning into her palm. Ruth's expression flickered towards worry, but he placated her almost immediately. "I would go through it all again, though," he murmured, turning his face and kissing her wrist. "In a heartbeat."

"Harry..." She stared, for a moment, then – seeming to throw caution to the winds, she leant forwards and kissed him.

It was not a chaste kiss, like those she had pressed into him when he had been waking, earlier. It was a kiss that said 'desire' as much as it said 'thank you', or 'love' and Harry could not help but respond to it. He kissed back, a little off-guard, a little awkwardly, but adapting almost instantly to the feel of her against him. She felt wonderful. Her lips were soft and sweet and so indescribably Ruth. Allowing his mouth to open, slightly, he felt her tongue run tentatively against his lip, then against his tongue. Hot. Wet. Wonderful. Heart racing, he lifted one hand to the side of her ribs, feeling her beat and breathe against him.

Their mouths parted and they breathed shakily for a second. Everything held still.

Then, they leant back in.

It was beautiful, a moment built on years of anticipation and mutual love. Arms slipping around one another, they moved their bodies closer as their kisses quickened. They angled and shifted, tongues and teeth exploring lips, breaths growing rough and unsteady. Every moment that passed felt like a miracle, to Harry. For the first time in years they were exactly as they should be and it was not at all forced or riddled with guilt. There was no hesitation or worry, in Ruth's eyes, just slightly nervous excitement. Bumping noses and awkwardly grasping, they fell further into themselves. Further into love, lust, sensation and wonder. She was beauty, he thought, breathing her in as she lay back against her pillows. She was perfection. She was everything.

Curling his arm around her, Harry felt her hands slide around the back of his neck. Her kisses grew rougher, hungrier, and he returned them with equal fervour – a thousand thoughts began to fight for supremacy inside his mind, a thousand emotions and impulses. He wanted to move closer. He was scared to move closer. He wanted to kiss her and roll her back and push himself between her legs and for them to vent the sexual tension they had spent years cultivating. He wanted release and yet, at the same time, he wanted this to last forever. He wanted it to be tender and perfect. Above everything else, he did not want her to run away again.

As Ruth lowered her hand from his neck to his back, fingers splaying underneath the edge of his shirt, Harry hovered on the edge of control. Need battled restraint inside of him, toiling and writhing until her fingers slipped down, beneath the duvet, and restraint lost the fight. She wanted him, Harry thought, as her fingertips slipped beneath the waistband of his pyjama trousers, playing over his buttocks. He had no idea why – it did not make sense to him, that something as beautiful and perfect as Ruth could want him – but she did want him and he was done with questioning it. He was done with self-control and self-denial. They had served him well, but that time in his life was over. He was done with being miserable and alone. Giving a tiny groan, he followed her gentle lead, letting her hand roll his body into hers.

It felt endlessly indulgent, to be pressed up against her. He could feel her breasts against him, the softness of her thigh as she lifted it up to wrap around his hip. Her skin was hot. His skin was burning. As she scratched her fingernails lightly across him, Harry almost trembled with nervous anticipation. Their bodies were so close and separated by only his pyjamas, her leggings, and the duvet that had bunched up between them. His whole body ached because of the proximity. He was fairly sure that he not had an erection like this since before he was thirty.

As wonderful as the sensation of her up against him was, however, Harry knew it was not a situation built to last. They were both fully clothed and someone had to give. After no more than a minute or so, Ruth did exactly that, slipping her hand free from his waistband, she lowered it to her own attire and started to grapple with her own vestments. The sash that held her dress together came away easily, the navy blue material parting to reveal her leggings and vest. Looking down, Harry could see the outline of her body for the first time, and he could not help but stare, slightly.

She was beautiful. None of his sordid imaginings – and there had been hundreds of them, over the years – came close. She was leaner than she had been, in years previous, but the soft curves that he had coveted for so long were still there. Her hip was still gently rounded. Her waist was still sloped, leading to soft belly below and soft breasts above. She was a beautiful woman, Harry thought, though quite markedly younger than him now that he saw her stripped of her bulky outer clothes. Fifteen-odd years. He swallowed. She was young and beautiful and clearly kept herself fairly fit. Walking or swimming, probably, or giving old men heart attacks, he added to himself. Yes, she seemed fairly proficient at that.

As Ruth pulled her vest away, revealing even more skin, Harry's eyes were pulled from the lines of her to the smooth skin of her belly, to the dark teardrop shape of her navel and then on... up... to the brassiere cradling her breasts. Its dark lace made her skin look even more flawless. Milky, smooth, beautiful. Before he could really stop himself, Harry reached out and placed his fingertips below them, in the dip below her sternum. She was soft. So soft.

"Can I?" he asked, softly breathless.

Ruth nodded, dropping the vest over the bed and lowering her hands to the waistband of the leggings. "You can help with these, too, if you like."

Harry nodded, lowering his hands to her hips.

He felt slightly dizzy. He half expected his heart to give out at any moment. But he could do this, he reminded himself, as he slipped his fingertips underneath her leggings. He had done this countless times. What the hell good was being a serial womanizer, after all, if you didn't have the moves to show for it?

Gathering himself, he bent down, brushing kisses along her legs as he slid the leggings down. The skin was softest on the inside of her knee, he found, pausing there on the way back up to taste her softly. Above him, Ruth lay her head back, lips slightly parted, drinking it all in. He seemed to be doing something right, then. Feeling a little braver, he pulled the leggings free from around her heels and then lifted his head to her stomach, kissing the skin beneath her navel. Her skin was soft and smelt of his soap. So she had showered in his shower this morning, he thought, with a tiny smile to himself. Scene of many a sordid imagination. Dropping the removed leggings over the edge of the bed, he wondered if he should tell her. As he straightened back up, however, Ruth distracted him before the words could make it to his lips.

"Harry," she murmured, slipping her fingers beneath the hem of his t-shirt. "Let me see you?"

Though he doubted she would be as enamoured by his naked body as he was with hers, Harry acquiesced. Pulling his t-shirt over his head, he pulled the duvet further up their bodies to protect them against the cold of the room, and dropped back to the pillows to let her explore him.

As it turned out, she was enamoured by his naked body. Lying with their legs entwined and their chests brushing, she traced her fingers across it in almost reverent circles. The look on her face was one of quiet wonder and, watching her, Harry had to take a moment to think how lucky he was – took a moment to think on exactly how unlikely it all was that they were both here, both alive and in love with each other, after everything that had happened to them. They were a bloody miracle, he thought, as she leaned back in to kiss him, her hand slipping down between their bodies – stroking his sides and his belly, before sliding gently over his swollen cock through his cotton pyjama trousers. They were never meant to happen. They would never have met in the street and fallen instantly in love. He and Ruth were here, now, because of everything they had experienced together; the things they had shared, the things which had changed them. They were here because of who they had become, together.

Quite the opposite of making him sad, however, the fact that they were a product of circumstance pleased Harry immensely. They were made together, he thought, groaning slightly as she slipped her hand beneath the pyjamas and wrapped her hand around him. They were made together and that meant that no external force could break them. They would break from the inside, or not at all.

She stroked over him for half a minute, or so, bringing him perilously close to climax before he reached down and stilled her had. Give me a moment, he murmured to her gently. She murmured back that she would give him two and he could lose the pyjamas. Gratefully, he did so, kicking them off and shoving them further down the bed, where they could be found later, before turning back to face her. She had shed her bra and knickers in his absence, leaving her delightfully exposed. Heart still thundering far too fast, Harry took a moment to trace his fingers over milky skin and rose pink nipples. His lover watched him, her excited breaths throwing shadows across her chest.

Eventually, his touches seemed to galvanise her into action. Reaching gently out for his arm, Ruth pulled them back onto her side of the bed, pulling him over her until he was cradled between her legs and her hard nipples brushed up against his chest. Harry, for his part, was not sure if he was going to come, die, laugh or cry – or, indeed, which would happen first. Body aching, he gently let himself gently lean against her, thighs pressing against thighs and bellies flush together, breathing hard as Ruth ran her hands under his shoulder blades.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered. Tilting her head back, she kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly, eyelashes brushing against Harry's cheek. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

Harry could feel the sudden break in the desperation of the moment. Sliding his hands up, he stroked her hair and her cheeks. They were incredibly close. Their bodies were pressed firmly together along their lengths. She could feel the throbbing of his heart at the back of his ribs and in the crook of her thigh. He could count every imperfection and freckle from her shoulders up and every fleck of colour in her eyes. Arms wrapped around each other, they were locked together. Tightly. It would have been an overly intense position, with anyone else in the world, but this was not anyone else, Harry thought, with a thrill in his stomach. This was Ruth.

"You would have survived," he told her, softly. "You would have been as magnificent. You always are."

"I would have survived," she agreed, her belly pressing up into his with each breath. "But not in any way I would want to. I don't want to be alone anymore, Harry," she sighed, softly. "I don't want to spend my life at arms' length from everything... from you."

They were not at arms' length now, thought Harry, shifting his face to look down at her, feeling her explore his lower back – feeling the soft muscle on the inside of her thigh tense against his lust-hardened body. They were as close as it was possible for two people to get. Her face was no more than a couple of centimetres from his. Her pupils were wide, reflecting him in their inky black. Not drunk, Harry realised, thinking back to last time. It was just want. For him. Feeling slightly touched, he leant in and kissed her.

Their bodies slid at the movement and Ruth to give a soft whimper of pleasure against his lips. She was as ready for this as he was, Harry thought. Neither of them would last more than five seconds, once they eventually coupled themselves together.

The thought gave him momentary pause.

He did not want that. He wanted this to be good for her. It was very important that it was good for her. She was not shallow. She would not walk away from him on one slightly shoddy performance but it was another item to add to the list of things he had done wrong and he really could not afford that list to get any longer. They were made together, he reminded himself, but they could still break from the inside out. This was not forever, not unless they made it so.

Their impermanence had given them explosive chemistry. They were all the more beautiful and poignant, because they were doomed. But what if that had been what she was attracted to, his mind suddenly chipped in, causing nerves to rise to the fore. What if – once the adrenaline washed away, once they were no longer doomed and there was no forbidden thrill to their relationship – she realised that those things were what she had been craving all along; the idea of them, not the actuality. Not him. What if she tallied up that list against the benefits of being with him and found out they were coming up short? What if she decided it was not worth it?

He could not lose her again...

"Harry?" Ruth's voice broke through his thoughts gently.

Harry looked down. "Yes?"

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes danced over his, soft and complete un-judgmental.

He did not deserve her, Harry thought, feeling a thrill of love.

"I'm just glad I'm here," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek in hopes of distracting from the inadequacy of his answer. He would just have to do the best he could, he thought. He couldn't offer any more than that. He would love her as best as he was able, he would let her into his home, make room for them his life, try and figure out a way to understand what was going on in that labyrinthine mine of hers... try not to let her see that he spent his every waking moment in terror of her leaving him for good. "It's nothing," he told her. "I'm fine."

"No," she pulled her face gently back from his, fixing him with endlessly blue eyes. "Not the excuse. I want to know what you're thinking – what you were thinking, just there."

She knew, thought Harry, watching her carefully. She knew that his thoughts were the same ones which had run through his head during their failed tryst on Christmas. She knew what was bothering him. The inherent lack of control in a situation like this – his feeling helpless. She already knew what he was thinking but she clearly wanted him to say it. Perhaps she was right, Harry thought, feeling a little bit of the tension in his shoulders slip away. Perhaps he needed to say it. Perhaps that was where he had failed, last time.

"I want this," he whispered, after a very long pause. His heart was fast beneath his ribs. "I want there to be a future for us. But I'm terrified that I'm going to do something wrong and lose you again."

She watched him for a very long few seconds, then sighed and slid her other hand free of his side, placing it on his cheek so that she was cradling his face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, drawing him close and placing a soft kiss against his cheek. "I am sorry that I have given you so much cause not to trust..."

Harry swallowed. "It was never just you..." he started, but she overrode him, gently.

"But I never helped," she told him, "and I accept that." A short pause. "Harry, I need to ask you for a second chance. I need you to try and trust me. I know we have a host of problems, but I am invested in this. I know what we are up against. I know it will not be easy but I would like to try, regardless. I would like there to be an 'us'."

"And I'm scared will change your mind," Harry replied.

Beneath him, Ruth gave a tiny sigh.

"I'm scared too," she told him, after a long pause. "I am scared of a thousand things about us, Harry. I am scared that you'll get tired of me, that I'm not beautiful or smart enough-," Harry opened his mouth, set to assure her he never could, but she slipped a thumb over his lips, silencing him. "I am scared that you will never forgive me," she continued, "for everything that has happened in the past. I am scared that you will be unable to let me in- that you will keep me on this pedestal, alongside all of your beautiful ideals, and anything we have together will wither and die. We are both scared," she explained. "Both of us have reason to doubt. But if we want this to work, we need to take the risk." Her eyes darted across his face. "We need to learn to trust in each other, and ourselves. After that, the rest becomes inconsequential."

Harry closed his eyes, feeling his skin covered with hers, feeling her breaths against his belly and her heat against his. They felt perfect but they could fall apart at any moment. They were both painfully fallible, so devastatingly human.

"I'm going to take the risk," he assured her, eventually. He was always going to take the risk. He loved her too much not to. Laying himself open was a foregone conclusion. He just didn't know how to do it. He didn't what to do next. "I just don't know where to start," he admitted.

"We start here," Ruth said, pulling his forehead forwards to rest on hers. "We give a little of ourselves to each other and receive a little in return. We try to be patient and honest. I don't know the future any more than you do," she told him. "I don't know if we will work out. But I love you and I want to try. And, as for the sex," she added, blushing softly, "you don't have to worry. It's not going to make us or break us. It's not the end of the world, if we don't get everything perfect the first time. It's just sex."

Harry felt his mouth curl in a tiny smile, felt an enormous surge of fondness rush through him.

How very Ruth.

Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss into her neck. "Nothing is 'just' with us," he whispered to her. "But I'm sure we will be extraordinary."

She continued to blush, but a smile crept across her lips too.

"Well, we are, aren't we?" she murmured, after a moment had passed and she had slid her hands up his back.

"Hm?"

"Extraordinary." She gave another shy smile. "If you strip it down, if you look at all the pieces, we shouldn't work, but we do. We fall outside normal parameters. By definition, that makes us extraordinary."

Looking down at her, Harry felt a little surer of his future and her place in it. Ruth was right. (As always she was). They had to take this risk. He had to place his fears alongside hers – not to be ignored but to be steadily stepped away from, over the passing weeks and months. They would step away, together, he told himself, and then one day they would turn around and realise they had walked so far that their fears could no longer hurt them. And they would be free. Together. He and Ruth.

Leaning in, he kissed her deeply.

"I love you," he whispered. "I want to take the risk. Just be patient with me."

She nodded. "And you, me."

He would.

Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her and they fell into slow rhythm against each other. Laying back against their pillows, they wrapped themselves together as they made love in the late morning sun. Breaths mixing and bellies pressed together, they lost count of the minutes that passed. They loved one another as if they were the only two people on earth, pushing their blankets away and drowning themselves in scent and sound and sensation. For a few glorious minutes, they were all that mattered. Just them and heat and electricity; just Ruth's fingers tightening against the back of his neck, just her open-mouthed moans as he stroked her slowly to ecstasy. Clutching her to him, Harry felt his hesitations and fears slipping away, lost to the sweetness of her body tightening around his, lost to the sound of her fast, shallow breaths and her tiny whispers of his name... Somehow, none of the rest of it mattered, anymore. They were going to try this, together. She was just as scared as he was, but they were going to take this risk together.

Somehow, he held on long enough to bring her to shuddering climax before letting his body give in to its own desires. Thrusting haphazardly against her, he buried his face into her neck and let himself break. Pulling out, he spilled himself over her belly, spilled himself into her hand as it slid down, to stroke him through. Closing his eyes, he groaned into her neck as he breathed in the scent of her. Nothing else mattered. The world was just pleasure and release, just him and Ruth – finally, beautifully, together.

It was more than extraordinary.

.


	32. Epilogue

_Epilogue – Swan Song_

_._

_Sometime later..._

.

The sand moved softly underfoot as Ruth crossed the beach towards the sea. Everything was still around her, apart from the most distant of humid breezes. The sun beat down hot upon the back of her neck and head. She felt it seep beneath her clothes and warm her skin, warming her through. There was no sun like this, north of the equator, she thought to herself, feeling the white sand shifting to cover her bare toes, feeling it move under her soles and heels. There was no place like this in the north, where she had made her home. These white sands and cerulean seas were for the Caribbean, the curved bays and hidden cayes, the secret beaches far from the roads and the hustle elsewhere in the world. This was a good place to hide, she thought, this place that they had chased their mole.

Another step brought her closer to the sea and she cast her eyes out over it. The horizon seemed so distant, so very far away and so very blue. She wondered how far she was looking – how far the human eye was able to see, on a clear day like this one, with the glare of the sun on the water and the soft rippling effect of the gentle surf. She was not tall, she reminded herself. At sea level, on a good day, she could probably see no more than three miles. In the days before GPS and maps, she thought, it would have been quite conceivable to think that it stretched on forever.

Tearing her eyes away, she headed further away from the villa she had arrived at, minutes previous, her feet sinking deeper into the sand as the beach became wider. The sea did not reach this far up shore, she thought, as she picked her way delicately across it. This sand lay unpacked until there was a storm and there had not been one of them for days, now. The land was still and hot and calm. The rains which came in the late afternoon never lasted very long and the ground dried out thoroughly in between. This was high-summer sand, she thought, picking her way down towards the small group of people, sitting on the far end of the beach. High summer and everything was hot and still. It was like another world, she thought, to the one they had left, just four days ago. The noise and rush of London seemed a million miles away from this secluded corner of the world.

Stepping gently down the beach again, she approached the only other human beings for miles around – five familiar human beings, the sight of whom warmed her heart slightly.

Calum sat nearest her, light chinos rolled up past his ankles, wearing a loose t-shirt and a straw hat – something which the rest of them had teased him endlessly about but he had refused to part from, after making its acquaintance in the airport lounge. Next to him, Tariq and Dimitri were dressed in similar summer fashion, in shorts and t-shirt shirts, the techie wearing a pair of bright red sandals. Bethan Shayne sat on their left and then Harry on hers. Ruth's eyes lingered over Harry the longest, picking out the sunglasses in his shirt pocket and the fact that he was barefoot. And his slightly shaggy hair. He needed a haircut, she thought, a bubble of fondness growing in the pit of her stomach as she sauntered closer through the sand. Now that he was working only part time, he seemed to forget about it. Perhaps it was spending more time out in the field and away from the reflective glass of his office walls, she thought, with a smile. Perhaps it was because she had once told him she liked to slide her fingers through it while he shagged her to oblivion and back.

They had been taking honesty very seriously, these past few months. They had been telling each other exactly what they wanted and needed from each other and, though it had been almost paralysing embarrassing to begin with, Ruth was slowly getting the hang of it. They were not the easiest of pairings to maintain. Harry was intense, in every way, all the time. For the first two weeks of their fledgling relationship, he was so reticent to let his guard down that she was reduced to tears, on several occasions. One day, during their morning commute – whilst having a towering row over god-knows-what (she honestly could no longer remember) – she had been so frustrated with him that she had actually got out of the car and walked away, leaving him in rush-hour traffic with no keys.

Over the next few weeks however, with a lot of patience and more arguments than Ruth cared to recall, something clicked into place for both of them. Harry started to talk to her and she stopped walking away. If they found themselves jammed on some emotionally loaded point – like his staying on for another six months with Section D, to assist in the handover – then they sat and talked about it in graphic detail. They talked about all of the information available to them, their feelings, their worries, their thoughts. It was what they did at work, after all, Harry pointed out. He gave her information. She analysed information. He analysed her analysis and came to a conclusion, which he then ran by her, just to make sure he was not being incredibly dense. It worked for them at Thames House and (though she had been initially sceptical) Ruth found it worked for them at home, too.

It did make for some incredibly awkward conversations, though. Ruth could remember one argument during which 'full disclosure' had led to an embarrassing rendition of the thousand and one things Harry found irritating about her; a rendition including, but not limited to, a deep and irrepressible hatred for the way she said the word 'orange' and his frustration with her lackadaisical approach to household order. (Incidentally, his own house was kept to a degree of obsessive-compulsive neatness that it drove Ruth equally bonkers). They persevered, however. They persevered because, more often than not, their horrifically revealing conversations led to moments which drew them together rather than pushed them apart. His revelation that he could no longer imagine waking up and not loving her, for example. Or her admission that her favourite feeling, in the entire world, was sliding her fingers through his hair while he shagged her to oblivion and back.

They still argued, of course – frequently and about everything from who had fed the dog that morning to what she should do about a job offer from the Home Office – but once they had a way of dealing with it, the arguments did not seem as important. They were two stubborn and very different people living in close proximity, after all. Of course there were going to be arguments. What mattered was that he loved her and she loved him and they both loved the little boy who they were raising together.

Wes was, without a doubt, the best thing that could have happened to the pair of them. Quite apart from anything else, he was definitely something to talk about, when the neighbours came around for tea. He was a mediating element, too, to the relationship; the third party they desperately needed for when their intensity became too much. It had all worked out better than Ruth had imagined. Though Wes was a typical eleven year old and there were, of course, days when he drove her up the bloody wall, she found herself loving him a little more every day. Little things she had thought of as purely Adam had shifted in her perception until they were just 'Wes'. As the months passed, she began to see him not as an extension of his parents but as a little, half-formed person, with ideas and thoughts and dreams of the world beyond himself. He was a source of delight to her, something to love as a mother – a position she had always secretly ached for but never had the bravery or the opportunity to fill.

Adam's son, for his part, had let her into his life with an open heart. After his initial enthusiasm over questioning Harry and Ruth over every aspect of their personal relationship – and he did question _every_ aspect, up to the point where Harry had to sit him down and set out some rules about what was polite conversation and what was not – they had settled into a comfortable routine. He boarded at school during the week but spent weekends alternately living at Ruth's flat and Harry's house, with both Ruth and Harry in residence when they could be there. Sometimes work got in the way, but there was always Malcolm to step in and take over from them for a while and Wes liked Malcolm. (The ex-technical officer spoilt him absolutely rotten). It was a busy, complicated arrangement but, for the time being, it worked for all of them. Slowly, Ruth relaxed into it and grew more confident in where she wanted to be as, slowly, they stopped alternating and spent more and more time at Harry's house. She let herself slip a little closer to him. She let herself surrender a little more. And time took care of the rest...

She gave notice on her lease, two months after they started seeing each other, and bought a beautiful place in Suffolk – with a little dithering and more than a little pushing, from Harry. They started alternating weekends between there and his house in London and split Ruth's belongings between the two. Work remained chaotic but Harry's duties began to lessen as Erin Watts returned from medical leave and started to take over some of his responsibilities. As March dawned, Calum Reid was officially made Section Chief. As April dawned, Dimitri Levendis officially handed in a permission to socialise form, requesting permission to date his new boss (Erin, that was, not Calum). Harry vetted them and signed it without qualms.

As spring faded into the beginnings of summer, Ruth accepted a job offer from the Home Secretary and became the new Security Liaison to the Home Office. Bidding a tearful goodbye to her old desk and the team (though she would continue to work with them on an almost daily basis) she moved into her new office in Whitehall. Her work hours became instantly more reasonable. She started watching evening television again. She started going to her singing groups again. She started having full weekends and saw more of her new family. As Harry's duties lessened, further, he began to see more of them too.

Time began to seal them together. Almost before her eyes, Wes began to grow up – growing taller, growing more like Adam, meeting a girl at swim club who he took on his very first date. Ruth drove them to the cinema and surreptitiously slipped him money, for tickets and popcorn. Harry muttered a few gruff words of advice beforehand and security vetted the girl. (And her immediate family. And her distant family. Just to be sure). The date went well and life went on. Most of the team joined them to watch Wes playing in the school Rugby championships. Calum befriended and recruited Malcolm, to join the team hunting Avery Price in South America. Malcolm started coming over for dinner on Saturdays. Malcolm bought Wes a bike. Wes broke two fingers, pulling stunts on said bike. Malcolm, Ruth and Harry spent the evening in hospital with him. Harry got back in contact with Graham, via Catherine. Catherine came over for dinner, with her new fiancée. Fidget died and they buried him in the back garden. Harry the beagle jumped the five foot fence in the back garden and impregnated next door's cocker spaniel. Harry tried to rescue Harry the beagle from the ensuing visit to the vets by sneaking him into work and hiding him under his desk. Harry failed. The beagle returned home with a cone around his head and two fewer body parts. Family life went on.

Work remained chaotic. Ruth got a company car. She pulled rank on Harry for the first time, over a situation with a foreign dignitary, and Erin Watts had to soothe the ruffled feathers over a team drink at the George after work. There was a threat against the Prime Minister's life. There was a threat against the Home Secretary's life. There was a nuclear warhead scare, in June, which almost ended in city-wide devastation. Everything was put on hold, for a few days, while they neutralised the threat. For a horrible few hours, one night, Ruth thought she might have lost Calum and Dimitri for good. Everything was panic and tension and fear. And then Tariq found them and Erin and the cavalry rode in to save them. They found the perpetrator. They obtained the uranium. London lived to breathe another day.

June turned into July and Harry left the Service. He and Ruth spent a weekend in Paris to celebrate and stayed in the most expensive hotel she had ever seen. Ruth discovered exactly why he had been named 'Shaky'. Harry nearly dislocated his shoulder making love to her in the hotel shower. They went home, muscles pulled and lessons learnt about them not being as young as they used to be. Lying wrapped up in their duvet, they talked about the age gap between them and the problems it would mean, in the future. After careful consideration, they decided it did not matter one tiny bit.

For the first time in a very long time, Ruth found herself truly and honestly happy. Things were still complex and somewhat delicate, but she and Harry were moving forwards. Work, though it was very different from what she had done at MI5, did fulfil her. It was providing security on a longer-term basis, she came to realise, over the weeks. She was working with the Security Services both on immediate threats and in helping the government to provide for them for future threats. Her job was every bit as necessary as what she had done at Thames House. And so she relished it. She relished it and Harry and Wes. And Calum, who was fast becoming a friend. And Malcolm, who slowly became a bigger and bigger part of their life.

Things were good.

Finding a lead on Avery Price had been the icing on the cake.

Despite the search for their mole officially being considered a cold case, they had been working it alongside their regular work commitments ever since New Years' Eve. Calum, in particular, had been brilliant, in Ruth's opinion. He had spent hours slogging away on computer screens, well into the early hours of the morning. He had made it his own personal vendetta, just as he had promised Bethan Shayne. He had commissioned Malcolm's help, paying him through an MI5 asset fund. He had sent Dimitri on countless errands to get information from assets. He had utilised every ounce of Tariq's novel programming experience to design programs to find Avery Price's details amongst the vast expanses of the internet. He had trawled bank accounts, property listings, jobs and ads and purchase histories. He had gone to Harry and suggested involving the Americans – who stood to risk a lot, with Price's knowledge of their security protocols – and Harry had gone to Jim Coaver, bringing him in to form a joint operation.

Calum had coordinated everything from the bottom up and it was down to him that they had found this lead. He deserved a commendation as recognition but he would never receive it, Ruth thought. This was an unsanctioned black op, assisted by a foreign intelligence agency, not officially recognised by either the DG or the Home Secretary. Calum would never receive credit for what he had done. But that did not matter, Ruth suspected. As she watched him sitting on the beach, now, with his eyes screwed against the sun – shoulder to shoulder with Tariq and chatting to Bethan Shayne about the aphrodisiac properties of breath mints – he looked like he could care less about recognition and commendations. He reminded her of Harry in that way, she thought, stepping slowly closer through the sand. (That way and many others). He was the best kind of spook. He would be one of the greats, one day.

Coming to within fifteen feet of the team, Ruth slowed her footsteps in the sand and called out a greeting. The assembled spooks all turned and greeted her in return – some with murmured 'hello's, some with nods, and Harry with a long, lingering stare which seemed to go right through her loose sundress and the shawl she had draped over her shoulders.

Ruth felt a flutter of pleasure through her belly. Their chemistry had been completely undiminished by getting to know one another. There had been nothing lost, knowing one another as people rather than just fantasy. Lowering herself gently down, she sat on the beach beside them, on the far side of the group from Harry, for posterity. Setting down her shoes, she stared out over the water. It was beautiful. Truly beautiful. It was hard to believe that it was the site of a recent black op.

After a long few moments, she gathered the courage to break the mood and ask how it had gone down – if they had captured Price or been forced to use lethal force. She had been through the empty villa, on her way in, and had noticed no sign of disturbance. The plan had been to be inside when Avery Price had returned from his weekly visit to the nearest town, for supplies. The plan had stated that they would subdue him with whatever force necessary and hand him over to the Americans, alive if possible. There had always been the unspoken agreement, however, that Shayne was to be allowed to have words with him first.

Calum had managed to wrangle the ex-spook a three day pass from jail, on compassionate grounds – some story about a dying family member – and had brought her along to Belize in his and Dimitri's custody. That she was sitting on the beach now, however, unshackled and looking quite calm, suggested to Ruth that she had not carried out what she had come here to do. Eyeing the older spook, Ruth wondered whether it was their efforts on her behalf – Calum's vehemence at chasing down Price and Harry's continued support of her case as she went to trial for shooting her superior officer – which had stayed her hand. There were few things in the world which revenge paled to, Ruth thought. Having people there to watch your back was one of them.

"Did you get him?" she asked, directing the question at the group on-whole.

Tariq was the one who answered. Leaning over, he informed her that Jim Coaver and his man had left with Avery Price just over half an hour ago. He explained how the operation had gone down, that everything had gone to plan and that Price had submitted as soon as he had found himself surrounded, and thanked her for her part in disengaging Price's security system. "We got him," he finished, with a tired sigh. "He's gone."

Ruth watched the young man with silent pride. For the first time since she had known him, he looked and sounded like a fully fledged spook. Out here, halfway around the world, he seemed to have finally found his feet. Smiling, she told him that he was more than welcome for the assistance and informed them that she had cleared out their equipment from the hotel room. It was all packed back into their ramshackle old van, ready to take to the airport tomorrow morning. And she had brought the tools they needed to remove all traces of Price's security system, she continued. Once they were done, they could load it all up into the van and there would be no indication to whomever found the empty property – in several months time when the lease came to – that anyone other than a retired banker had lived there.

"I suppose that means its our last night in paradise," Dimitri mused softly, to Tariq's right. Staring out over the water, he did not look so terribly saddened by the fact. He would be eager to get back to Erin, no doubt, thought Ruth. It was the longest they had been apart since they had started dating. Even the lure of tropical Belize was not enough to distract him.

Calum, on the other hand, looked a bit put out.

"Is nobody up for staying another few days, then?" he asked. "I thought we could make it a team building experience. You know, white water kayaking and raft-building... that sort of thing."

Tariq raised an eyebrow at him. "Probably not the best idea, mate." He motioned to the lobster red colour of his Section Chief's shoulders. "Quite apart from the gross misuse of government funds, if you stay out in the sun any longer and you might turn that colour permanently."

Calum frowned.

The rest of them laughed, softly, then slowly, everybody turned their attention back out to the water.

They were all tired, Ruth thought, digging her toes into the hot sand and wriggling them around. They had been on the clock for two days, sleeping in shifts, tracking Avery Price from Belize City up north, trying to pinpoint his location through veils and veils of security. He really was a paranoid bastard. And he was talented. Even though they knew his rough whereabouts, it took them almost thirty-six hours to find the house through a series of internet routers and another ten hours to break through the security and figure out how to get inside. Then it was just a case of finding out when he was going to be going out and insert themselves to await his return.

Everything had been done beneath the radar. They could not afford to leave any trail. Ruth's primary job, apart from sorting out the communications and assisting Tariq in the take-down of the security system, was to clean up after them. She had gone through all of his details, cleared out bank accounts and bought flights to different cities. She had set it up to look like he was badly in debt and fleeing the country to escape his debtors. It was a trail which would be eventually disproved, if the authorities every found it and pushed it long enough. But by then every sign of their involvement would be gone. Nobody would know about their extra-jurisdictional jaunt to the Caribbean. Nobody would know that they four spooks had ever been here. They had come on different flights, using different names, arriving in different airports and taking different methods of transportation to meet up in the capital. They had paid for everything in cash and, once their hotels ran over their security tapes in a weeks' time, as Ruth knew they would, there would be no recorded evidence on this earth. They would be like ghosts.

Leaning back, she tilted her head into the sun and yawned widely.

Beside her, Calum did the same.

Beside him, Dimitri gave a heavy sigh and then slowly stood, brushing sand off his backside. "Right, Tariq," he said, giving a little groan and stretching out his arms. "How about I give you a hand getting rid of that security system?" The techie nodded so he turned to Ruth. "Can I get the keys to the car?" Reaching into her pocket, Ruth took them and tossed them over. The young field officer thanked her and, giving the ocean on font of them one last long look, began to walk off in the direction of the villa – out of sight beyond the soft feathered palms and the emerald forest blanketing the hills.

Tariq stood and made to follow.

"We'll meet back at the villa?" he asked, looking at the rest of them.

They all nodded. They would be reconvening to debrief, prior to their flights back out of the country – economy rather than business class, this time, courtesy of the CIA who had got what they wanted and were suddenly feeling a little less generous with the funding.

"We'll be back within the hour," Harry confirmed.

"You and Dimitri take the van," Ruth told him, "we'll take care of the car, change the plates and everything, and get a taxi back from the next town over."

"Okay. No problem."

"I'll come and help you load things," Shayne said, standing and stretching. As she prepared to set off, Ruth noticed her look down at Harry and them exchange a brief wordless communication – a thank you, in the brush of her leg against his shoulder with her leg, a tiny smile as she adjusted the thin scarf over her shoulders. Old friends. Good friends, if not the most effusive. "See you in an hour," Ruth heard her tell him, softly, then she turned and walked after Tariq. They fell into step ten feet or so away and Ruth heard them start to chat about the equipment she would be helping him shift – Shayne sounding softly curious and Tariq sounding thrilled that the veteran was paying him individual attention.

Ruth turned back to Calum and Harry.

It was just the three of them left, now. Just her and the two people on the team she was closest with. Next to her, Calum lay back on the sand and Harry heaved a sigh. Ruth quelled a smile. She knew how they felt. She had a similar feeling flowing through her, right now – a mixture of exhaustion and strange satisfaction. In her case, it was also accompanied by a tiny hint of sadness. This was the last time she would ever be working for MI5. Now that this operation was closed down, now that Avery Price was on his way to wherever the Americans were taking him, (and Ruth, really did not care where they were taking him, nor what horrors he suffered there. Price had assisted the man who tried to kill Harry – he would burn in the seventh rung of hell for all eternity, if she had her way), she was going to be a true civilian. There would be no black operations, no secret phone calls on encrypted lines at two in the morning when they had a lead. She would have an almost normal life. She would have a job with almost regular hours. She would have a company car and weekends and a house in the country. She would have her adopted son, sweet Wes, who invited her to rugby games and asked her advice on girls. She would have a partner who doted on her – who was completely and utterly devoted to her and made her feel alive and beautiful in a way she had never felt before – but, she told herself, with just a hint of nostalgia, she would never be a spook again.

She missed it some days, already, but she would admit even to herself that those days were fewer and further between with each passing week. She enjoyed her new job. She enjoyed her life and her family. And when the flickers of guilt struck, the survivor's guilt that she held for leaving the job which all the rest of her friends – Danny and Fiona, Colin and Zaf, Adam and Jo and Ros – had given their lives for, then she would turn to Harry. Her Harry. Her Harry who was now her partner – a situation which still felt a little strange, at times, but wonderful too. Any guilt she felt, for leaving, he could match and raise. Any sorrow she felt at her colleagues' loss, he felt equally. They would grieve for their people together then, softly, he would bring her back to the world they inhabited now and he would make her see the good in it and the guilt would fade. They would keep doing that, she told herself. This nostalgia that was washing over her, now, was just nostalgia. She knew that she could not return to the life she had shed, those months ago. She did not want to. Not really.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and stared out across the water, feeling Harry's eyes on her from five or so feet away. They had made the right decision, she told herself again. They were always going to be spies. They would carry the secrets and scars of their service for the rest of their lives. But they had made the right decision. It had been time to stand down. It had been time to let go. Because she knew he was watching, she gave Harry a soft smile, still looking out into the water.

A few moments passed, then Calum shifted beside them, sitting up.

"Well, chaps," he exclaimed, with the playful lilt he reserved especially for when he was alone in their company, "I suppose I should be getting on too. People to see. Vehicles to burn. Antsy Section Heads to report to." Ruth turned to him, feeling her lips curve into a soft smile. He was leaving them alone on purpose. Just occasionally, even Calum Reid could be tactful. "I'm going to try and convince Tariq to come to the casino at the tourist resort with me, tonight," the new Section Chief informed her, with a mischievous smile. "Reckon we could pull off a Rainman. You're very welcome to join us. We could do with a pretty face to bring us luck." He turned to Harry. "You are also welcome to join us, Harry... not for the same reason."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Calum turned his head to take one last long look over the clear water.

"This is quite a romantic setting, you know," he commented.

"Bugger off, Calum," Harry grumbled, good naturedly.

Pretending to be offended, Calum pulled himself to his feet.

"All right. Keep your hair on. And remember the perils of sand and sensitive skin," he added, raising a warning finger as he began to walk backwards away from them. "Its all good fun until someone... well, you know the rest." Turning, he headed back along the beach in the direction the others took a few minutes previous.

In the silence he left behind, Ruth turned to Harry, who was watching after the younger officer with a faintly disturbed expression.

"He means well," she told him, softly.

Eyes sliding over, her lover's expression was replaced by a more familiar one.

"I suppose its valid advice," he told her, eyes liquid honey, voice low and smooth, "fantasies about you naked and writhing in the surf, aside."

Ruth blushed, furiously.

Though they had been routinely expressing their desires in such explicit terms, over the last few months, he could still catch her off guard when he wanted to. He did it on purpose, she knew, but she could not prevent herself from reacting. However far they came, however close they grew, there would still always be a part of Harry that was still her unattainable boss – the man she had imagined for years from her seat across the Grid, shamelessly and in great detail. It felt strange to think that he was allowed to say these things. It felt strange to think that he was hers. Wonderful, though, she thought, as Harry picked himself up and moved over to sit beside her, just close enough that their bare arms brushed and his toes disturbed the sand around hers. Strange but wonderful.

Turning her head, Ruth took him in. He looked healthier and happier than he had done, a few months ago. He had lost a little weight. He had gained a little colour in his skin, from being outside more. He was enjoying being out from behind a desk, it seemed, with the responsibility of management lifted from his shoulders. He kept himself fairly busy, even in retirement, however. As well as the Price case, Ruth knew he was still involved in some private enterprises, with old contacts. She suspected she was doing some consulting with Jim Coaver, at the moment, due to some late-night transatlantic telephone calls, but she was far too smart to ask exactly what it was all about. She knew Harry would be careful and everyone had to have hobbies, after all. His just happened to be espionage.

Resting her chin on her arm, she let her eyes trace over him. The humidity made his hair curl almost as much as hers. Though it was still fairly short, she could see gentle waves forming along the top and back of his head, half-curls at the longer parts. He was still golden, she thought, with a smile into her arm. Over the last year or so he had lost a little more of the colour to grey, but it was still there. In this light, she could see it more clearly than under the grey skies of home. He must have been a pretty boy, she thought, reaching her hand out on impulse and brushing a few grains of sand from his cheek. For a brief moment, she wished she had had the chance to know him then realised that – even if they had been of an age difference which would not have bordered on the ridiculous, at that point in their lives – they probably would not have got on. In his twenties and thirties, Harry had been a different man to the one who sat beside her now. This was the man she loved. This was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

"You're sunburnt," she murmured to him, running a finger over the faintly pinked cheeks.

He threw her a crooked smile. "Curse of having fair skin. Doesn't matter how much cream I slather on, I always end up bright red."

She smiled.

The others were gone. It was just them left, them together, and it felt incredibly good to be alone with him again. They had had precious little time over the last week to be alone. Finding the lead and then tracing it here had consumed all their waking hours. Wes had gone to stay with Malcolm for the week while they had flown out here to sort things out. They had been sleeping in shifts, working around the clock and almost constantly in the team's company. It had been eight days since they had shared a bed, ten since they had had the energy to do anything but sleep in it. Unwrapping her arm from around her knees, Ruth inched over and slid it around him, resting her cheek on his shoulder as his hand found her waist.

"I've missed you," she murmured, rubbing his back gently.

"Mm, I know." He kissed her hair. "This morning I woke to find Calum sleeping on one side, Dimitri on the other and Tariq snoring on the camp bed below. It was rather a disappointment, after the dream I'd been having."

Ruth smiled.

She could only imagine the grumbling that had gone on about sleeping arrangements, in Harry's room. Wanting to keep a low profile, they had only booked two rooms at the hostel-style hotel and the men had volunteered to take the smaller and shabbier so that the women could have an en-suite bathroom. Not wanting to rock the boat, Ruth had gone along with everything but she got the impression that the gents were now slightly regretting their act of chivalry. Apart from the cramped quarters and the communal showering arrangements, Dimitri's snoring had been keeping them awake half the night. Harry had likened it to that of an old dog. Calum had likened it to a drunken pirate. Tariq, of course, had been the only one sensible enough to put in earplugs.

Turning her face, she pressed a kiss into Harry's neck, breathing in the scent of him. He smelt of sand and sun cream, with undertones of sweat and of gunpowder, from handling the ammunition during their earlier capture of Price. Hints of cologne still clung around his jaw but they were day-old. He smelt of him, she thought, rubbing her forehead into him, feeling him squeeze her more tightly to his side and press another kiss into her hair. He smelt good. He smelt of Harry – a definitively male and individual scent that made her feel safe and calm. Closing her eyes, she listened to the surf rolling gently onto the beach and pushed her toes deeper into the hot sand, trying to capture the moment and hold it inside her; protection against the difficult times they had left to come. Here, was happy. Here, was home.

As she leaned, his fingers traced a slow path down her side until they came to rest on her bum.

Ruth smiled slightly, into his shoulder. "Steady on."

He squeezed her gently, in response, then sighed and rested his head on top of hers.

Ruth sensed the contemplation in his posture.

"What is it?" she asked him, softly, lifting her head from underneath to meet his gaze.

Harry gave her a slightly shy smile. "I was thinking that it was all over, now," he said, quietly. "We found Price. You'll go back to the Home Office and I'll go quietly into retirement. Once we get on that flight home, we are officially civilians."

It was exactly what she had been thinking, earlier.

Sighing, Ruth gave him another soft rub across the back.

"Its time," she told him softly. "You've said as much to me, often enough, these past few months. It's time to leave."

"I know that," he looked down at her and there was no hesitation in his eyes. "I've not changed my mind," he assured her. "It's just strange, I suppose. It's all I've ever done – all I've ever been."

She smiled and lay her head down on his shoulder.

They were quiet for some time. Then a thought occurred.

"I was walking through Price's house earlier," she told him, softly, fingers running over the soft notches in his back, finding the hard points of his spine beneath the flesh. "I found his library. It was beautiful, Harry – these big, full length oak cases, absolutely full of books. I walked around and around it, looking at all of the titles, looking at all of the things he had read – finding the same stories that I have on my shelves. He had Ovid's _Amores_ on the coffee table, you know," she said. "He was not so very different to us, really. He read about love and life, he had seen the same horrors. He was a spook. What makes him different to us was not what happened to him, it was how he chose to react to it." Shifting her cheek against him, she nestled closer. "We make ourselves who we are, Harry. A part of you will always be a spook but you can make yourself more, if you choose to." She knew he could. She had seen him do it. Father. Partner. Lover. Friend. "You can have a life. With me. With Wes and your children."

He squeezed her side appreciatively.

They were silent for a long time.

The surf continued to roll gently against the beach. Ruth watched as a solitary leaf drifted down and fell into it, rising and falling in the soft white foam until some change of wind or current pulled it out into the blue and it began to drift slowly away out to sea. It showed up vivid emerald against the sea, for a while, then slowly it drifted beyond Ruth's sight, out into the mottled sapphire blues of the reef. It would wash up on some shore far away from here, she thought, or sink to the depths of the ocean. Either way, it would fall to energy and that energy would be released into something else and things would go on. Things would always go on, she thought, watching the waves rise and fall slowly, watching the sunlight dapple across the water and the surf rush and slide. Life would always go on. All energy was borrowed. Even her and Harry.

Next to her, he turned slightly, pushing his face into the side of her head. "Marry me, Ruth," he asked her softly.

A wave of surprise washed over her. Followed by delight. Followed by quiet exasperation.

She turned her head to face him.

"We're sitting in the aftermath of an unsanctioned black op in a foreign country," she stated softly. "We still have the clean-up to manage, we still need to be extracted. In less than twenty four hours we will be home and safe but you chose to ask me here?"

Harry gave a tiny shrug, looking unfazed by her reaction.

"I love you more, today, than I have ever loved you before," he answered simply, "more than yesterday, but a little less than tomorrow. I will keep asking until you say yes," he added, causing Ruth's heart to melt into molten love inside her chest. "As I think we've established, I can be more than a little stubborn... especially when it comes to you. I know where my priorities lie, now, Ruth," he said softly. "I'm making a choice." Reaching his fingers up from her side, he wound them through her hair, turning her towards him as his eyes drifting across her face. "Marry me," he murmured softly.

Breathing in, she leant into him, pressing her faces into his and revelling in the intimacy of the moment.

"You are the most infuriating man I've ever met," she whispered against him, as his lips kissed her cheek. "Without a shadow of a doubt."

He did not reply, just turned his head, slightly, and kissed her lips, until they parted beneath his. Then he kissed her again, deeper, tongues brushing, causing her hands to slide up and around him. He pulled her into a tight embrace, then toppled them gently back on the sand, still tangled in each other. Ruth laughed, excitement and pleasure running through her. Harry held her close, whispering love into her skin, pressing sweet kisses into her cheeks and hair. "Marry me," he murmured to her, softer and softer, sweetly insistent. "Marry me, Ruth..."

Ruth pressed into him and closed her eyes, drinking it all in. She could feel his heart beating fast beneath his skin, where her arms were wrapped around him. She could feel him drumming against her, matching her own pulse. As she lay and counted the beats, it occurred to her that his timing was not as bad as she had supposed it to be. They were not like normal people, she reminded herself. Their timing was not the same as everyone else's timing. They were spooks. They lived by different rules. And here, on the other end of the world, was actually as perfect a moment as existed for Harry to ask her to marry him. Lying in the ashes of who they were, playing out the swan song of their time with the Service, he was asking for her to move forwards, with him – together. This was right, she realised, with soaring elation. This was perfect and she wanted it – and there was no 'but' this time, no perilous indecision and guilt, no resentment or confusion. There was fear, because the world was an uncertain place, where two people were so very small and the things that could push them apart were very big, but fear was something she could live with. He got scared too, after all. And she wanted this...

Opening her eyes, she looked up at him.

Cerulean met hazel.

"Yes," she whispered, "Yes, Harry."

Closing his eyes, Harry leant his forehead forwards against hers.

Ruth held him tightly.

Nothing was certain in their world, but they felt like they were home.

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_FIN_

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_A/N – I couldn't resist the fluff. __ Thank you everyone for your support and all of the wonderful reviews. Until next time, -Silver._


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